


Debris

by lysanatt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Divorce, Happy Ending, Homelessness, Lawyer Sam, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-03-30 14:02:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3939523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysanatt/pseuds/lysanatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>NOTE: On hiatus, but not abandoned.</b><br/>When the law firm sent him back to Lawrence, all Sam expected was a house he didn't care for, a job he didn't want, and a year of total small-town boredom. What he <i>hadn't</i> expected was to find Dean's discarded husband in the empty house he had taken over from his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Distant Relations

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M/E for later chapters.

Sam slams the door of his sleek black car. He looks at the house that he once lived in, years ago, before he ran off to Stanford and to the life he wanted so badly. What he doesn't want badly is the house _back_. It is bad memories, a ruined childhood, a broken family. The house stares at him with dark, empty eyes, the door sending him a wry, chapped smile made of loose hinges and flaking paint. Sam sneers at it. He would rather be back in New York, in his old apartment, in his old life. The life he liked. 

He takes a deep breath and walks up to the front door, key in hand. It feels strangely familiar, both the key and the walk up the path. The key is worn soft by frequent use. It could even be the one Sam used to have as a kid; the key is old. It's like the house has ingrained itself in Sam's mind; it's the same green paint, the same pull-back-a-little and turn-right-then-left movement that unlocks the door, the same squeaky sound when he pushes it open. 

The hall is empty. Absent of sounds, but filled with used smells, dead smells. Remnants of motor oil and bacon. Dust. Sam puts down the key on the third step of the stairs, the only place to put anything in a hall that has nothing in it but a few dust bunnies. 

Dean's letter — the first in years — is still in Sam's pocket. He put it there when he left for Lawrence. It's short and to the point. Sam needs a house, Dean has one, and that's about it. 

_I don't know when I'm coming back. Family life isn't my thing and I really need a break. Congratulations on making partner, I guess it's what you wanted. Sorry, I can't stay. Do what you like with the house. If you don't want it, leave the key and the paperwork at Jody's. She'll put it on the market._

It's all there, all the questions, all the accusations, all the hurt. Invisible, in between the lines, the short message says it all. _Why did you leave? Why did you pick Stanford over your family? You didn't think we were good enough for you?_ Sam doesn't have to read the letter again to know what it says. It's the same shit he'd been listening to over and over until he had enough. Family business, family this, family that. It's the worst excuse in the history of mankind. It's all they have in common, blood, their only connection, apart from an exchange of cell phone numbers and a few calls and emails. They're brothers, sure, and Sam won't ever stop loving Dean, but they are better at loving each other at a distance. Sam doesn't know where Dean is going. Dean didn't care to tell him. It makes them even, sort of. Equally dysfunctional.

Sam wouldn't have been here if it hadn't been hopeless to find a house in the area on such short notice, and he definitely hadn't taken Dean's offer, had their childhood home not been less than a ten minute walk from _A &A Lawrence_. Sam has money enough, one of the perks that goes with the job, but he's not staying in Lawrence for one minute longer than necessary and it seems like a waste to go through all the hassle, buying the house off Dean. 

The move is a hassle; the house is merely a part of it. Moving out of New York hadn't been optional, since _Abaddon & Alastair_ don't expect their employees to refuse their offers and the offer — despite the location — is well worth it: Sam is making partner years ahead of his friends from Stanford. The track that might have taken him ten, eleven years to finish has been cut down to six. It's uncommon, and Sam should be grateful. He isn't. It's not that Abaddon & Alastair hired him because they are humanitarians. He's marketable. He has no illusions about his appearance, and clients tend buy what they find interesting. They even get a competent, hard-working lawyer to go with the looks. Sam has billed more hours than most and stayed more night at the office than anyone else at A&A. Billing close to 2,500 hours a year, he has earned the promotion, the Manhattan corner office, the towering raise in income. 

A year.

It is premature burial. 

" _We need a man in our Lawrence office. To be precise, we need a man to take over from our man in Lawrence, a partner, and that is you, Winchester. Twelve months_ ," Abaddon had told him as Alastair had pushed the very lucrative contract in front of him. It was true that all partners have earned their place in their luxurious offices at the main office in one of the smaller branch offices and of course, being the youngest partner in the history of Abaddon & Alastair, Sam would not be exempt from that condition. 

He had signed the contract after two days of consideration - _after_ Crowley, the senior partner that disliked Abaddon the most, had worked it over, hesitating, as if he'd had the option to say no. He had, but he'd also have been aiming at his career with a shotgun if he'd refused. 

It _is_ promotion, but it doesn't feel like it. Because Sam knows his bosses well enough to know that he is not guaranteed a safe and fast return to mid-town Manhattan next year. Alastair and Abaddon might still ask him to stay in Lawrence for longer than twelve months. The law firm is expanding, and Sam thinks that it is the reason Abaddon  & Alastair made him the offer; they are in need of qualified, ruthless people to go through with the expansion. Sam sure fits into the first group. Whether he fits into the second... that has yet to be determined. Lawrence is the testing ground. Abaddon & Alastair Lawrence isn't the fast-paced corporate office he's used to, but the numbers are sound: Sam knows he's going to work like mad, and earn a fortune; _A &A_ has a reputation, even here. He's going to prove himself, or the A's will find a way to get rid of him and cut their losses.

Sam shakes it off. He's going to make it worse if he wallows in the disappointment and the discontent. It's merely another step towards the goal he set for himself when he left Lawrence, left Dean and Dad to their own disgruntled devices. Sam hadn't thought that he'd ever return. But he is here and he'll make the best of it. Of the house.

Letting out a deep-felt sigh, Sam directs his attention to the state of his... home. 

He opens the door to the living room. Empty. It's not too bad, despite the childhood memories, tied to this place and locked away by time. It's not the same house. It smells empty and abandoned and a little stale, but it is also strangely not-Dean, not-Dad. 

Sam slides a hand down the wall where the old wallpaper is torn and somebody has glued it back on.

The house is empty but it feels... lived in. Kept. Contrary to the outside walls, the living room have been painted recently. It's a poor paint job, with cheap paint and unskilled strokes, a feeble attempt to make the house look neat. There are dead flies on the windowsill, their littered black bodies contrasting the pristine white paint on the windowsill. The walls are a hopeful, fresh green. Sam didn't think that Dean would care as long as there was food in the fridge, a bed to sleep in and beers to drink. Maybe Dean has changed, too. It has been years, so why wouldn't he? Maybe he... maybe _they_ should have taken the time to find out?

Sam opens a window to let in some fresh air, then goes to check the kitchen. 

It is not what he had expected. Oh, it has a number of cabinets, ordinary old ones, a fridge — also ordinary and old — and a stove of the common variety. Cheap. The kitchen as such is... ordinary. 

One thing isn't ordinary, though. There is a man on the floor. He sits, arms wrapped around his knees; a ball of misery and sadness. He looks as if he's been crying.

"Excuse me," Sam says, not particularly worried and a little too surprised to react with any anger. The man looks harmless. "Who are you, and what are you doing in my brother's house?"

"I didn't know where to go," the man says. His eyes are red-rimmed and he clings to an old trench coat as if his life depended on it.

"I see. And you decided that breaking into an empty house would be the solution?" Sam frowns. "You homeless?"

The man on the floor laughs. It's a desperate, weak laughter. "I'm a stray cat. He put me out. Forgot to take me back in."

"Are you okay?" Sam is slightly worried now. Maybe the man is a mental patient or something. "Do you have anyone I could call?"

"It wouldn't matter." The man shakes his head. "He left me."

"I'm sorry about that," Sam says, quickly flipping through a few scenarios in his head. Gay, bad breakup, homeless for some reason. Sam's brain slips into litigation mode. _Unlawful entry_. Not worth the hassle. Sam just wants the guy to leave without any fuss. "It still doesn't explain why you're in my house. Can I get you a glass of water or something? Then you have to go." Sam pats his pockets. He probably have a few hundred-dollar bills. He's not entirely without compassion and the man looks as if his entire world just broke apart. "Maybe you can get a room at a motel? These should last you a few weeks." Sam pulls out a wad of cash. It's nothing to him, probably everything to the homeless man on the floor.

The man stares up at him, eyes brimming with tears. "He said you were like that. Nice." He doesn't take the money.

"Who... what?"

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have..." The man fights to get up. "I'm going now. Thank you, Sam."

"Hold on!" Sam tries to connect the dots, but a few are missing. "You know who I am? Who are you?"

The reply is _so_ not what Sam had expected. Ever. In any reality known to man. 

The man straightens up. He's taller than Sam had expected, built. Handsome. "I'm Castiel. Your brother's husband."

*

The small coffee shop is quiet. They take the booth at the end wall, it's private and calm. Castiel, Castiel Winchester, Dean's husband — Dean's fucking husband — shuffles into the booth, covering himself with the trench coat like a small animal curling up to die in relative peace under a hedge. Castiel doesn't look as if he is going to die, though. Apart from the heartbroken sadness he seems healthy enough, if a bit malnourished and worn out. He clings to the threadbare duffel he insisted on bringing with him. Sam guesses that it contains what little Castiel owns.

"When was the last time you ate?" Sam asks, watching Castiel watch the girl behind the counter serve a sandwich to another customer with far too much interest. Sam takes off his jacket. He folds it over the back of the chair. The brand name flashes its worth in golden letters and Sam doesn't like the message, although he likes the suit. 

Castiel sits there, tight-lipped for some time, before he replies. "I came home. He told me that it was over. I had to leave. For my own sake. That's what he said." Castiel pulls the ragged trench coat even tighter around himself, as if it is able to shield him against the world. He fiddles with the handles on the duffel. "He took... The furniture was his. I don't know where he went. He didn't tell me."

Sam sighs. He didn't think that Dean would be that cruel to a man he had sworn to stand by and love. It's the Dean of old... fuck them and leave them, no ties, no commitment. "You didn't answer my question."

"There was food in the fridge. It ran out. A week, I think. Two. I can't remember." Castiel's eyes glaze over, the pain he must be feeling is turning into tears. 

Sam hands him one of the paper napkins from the table. "It's okay," he says, although nothing is. "I'm getting you something."

Castiel sniffles a, "Thank you," into the tissue. He doesn't tell Sam what he likes, so Sam leaves the table to order coffee and soda and a small variety of food at the counter, giving Castiel time to collect himself. They don't know each other and Sam doesn't know how an offer of comfort will be received. Except there is no comfort to give. Perhaps Dean's head on a platter, but Sam's not willing to go that far. Dean should be glad that he is not present; despite his aversion to cutting Dean's head off, he's not opposed to kick his ass. Sam is sure Dean believed it was the right thing to do, leaving Castiel like an unwanted cat at the wayside, however. It is very _Dean_ when he's not thinking clearly.

Waiting at the counter, Sam looks at his brother-in-law and wonders when Dean lost his mind and married this guy, this lost kitten. It is so cruel, abandoning someone like him. Dean must have panicked; he would never have done anything this heartless if he hadn't panicked. The constant litany of 'family is important' that Sam has been exposed to for years also makes him very, very sure that Dean would never have done anything like it if he'd been in his right mind. So it's either a girl or panic. Seeing that Castiel isn't very girly, Sam can't decide which, since Dean might have abandoned girls too. Either gay panic, or commitment issues. Or gay commitment issue panic. Castiel probably doesn't care about the difference. Sam realizes that he can't even berate Dean his behavior without coming off as a total hypocrite. There is little difference between what Sam did years ago and what Dean did now. Except Castiel didn't tell Dean that if he walked out the door he shouldn't bother coming back. Like Dad had done. Oh, Dean learned from the best. 

When Sam gets a hold of Dean, he'd be sure to let Dean know what he thinks anyway. In a few select phrases.

"You should eat slowly," Sam says as he puts the full tray down on the table in front of Castiel. "I do not want you to get sick."

Castiel frowns, hesitating, one hand hovering over the sandwiches. He makes a small, unrecognizable sound and puts his hand back in his lap. He's a hurt animal, scared and starved, all eyes and hunger. 

"Please, Castiel. Take what you want, but... a little at a time, okay?" Sam slides into the seat as not to hover over Castiel. "You can take with you what you don't eat now."

"I don't know where to take it," Castiel says, carefully biting off a corner. It's bacon and lettuce. A drop of something that looks like curry dressing lands on his hand. He stares at it helplessly until Sam takes pity and wipes it off with his napkin. 

"Home, I suggest." Sam slips into lawyer mode a bit too abruptly. "You need to le—" Sam shuts his mouth before he repeats the exact same words that Dean used. "Do you have somewhere to go? Family, friends?"

Castiel's lips turn narrow and tense, pressed hard against each other, as if there are too many words that Castiel wants to let out, but refuses them the freedom. He shakes his head. "No." He doesn't offer any explanations, and Sam doesn't need one. 

Unfortunately there isn't pounds for lost husbands. He has to let this one out in the streets. "I'm sorry." Again Sam pulls out his wallet and offers Castiel the dollar bills. "It should be enough for a room. At least until you can find somewhere to stay." Sam hates this. It's Dean's problem, and he wiped it off on him. Sam doesn't know the guy, but this Castiel isn't something dirty one has to wipe off from under a shoe, and yet that is exactly what Sam is doing, mostly because he doesn't know what else to do. He pushes the cash across the table, as if it wipes off the guilt and the shame by the slide across two feet of brown, chipped Formica. "I'm sorry," Sam says again, forcing down an offer of more help before he says the words aloud, committing to something he'd rather not. He gets up. He needs to leave right away or he cannot do this, discarding Castiel like a piece of human garbage. He turns, his back to Castiel, as he pulls on his jacket. "Do you have anything in the house that you want before you leave?" he asks, knowing very well what a callous ass he is. Besides the house is empty. Dean took everything. Sam realizes that corporate law has rubbed off on him a bit too well.

There is no answer. Nothing but the chime of a bell and the slamming of a door. 

Castiel has left. 

The sandwiches are gone, but the offered dollar bills are still on the table. 

"Shit. You silly fool." Sam grabs the wad of cash, thirty silver coins in the shape of a few hundred dollars that is nothing to Sam, but maybe everything to Castiel, and runs outside. The streets are darkening, and Castiel has disappeared.

Sam can't decide whether he should feel really, really relieved or incredibly ashamed of himself.


	2. U-turn

Of course Dean doesn't answer the phone when Sam calls, and on the third day the number simply stops working. It's not like Dean's behavior is surprising; he has done it before, turning into this cold, emotionless idiot. Yeah, Dean has his demons, and Sam knows there is only one way to deal with them: he goes back to a life where Dean doesn't exist a anything but a distant relation. It's the way it has been since Sam walked out of Dean's life at the mature age of seventeen, their dad's cruel message ringing in his ears. _If you walk out that door, son, don't ever come back_. Sam didn't come back, and their dad died without Sam knowing about it. They — Dean and Dad and he — deal with problems the Winchester way — avoidance, denial, silence. Dean will come around when he's ready.

So Sam buries the thought of Dean and his human debris in a flurry of shopping. He spends a day directing the workers who arrive with a variety of fancy wallpapers and paints, ready to cover up any traces of Sam's childhood, of Dean and his husband. Castiel's badly painted walls disappear under new layers of wallpaper and paint. Carpenters come hauling cabinets and counters through the house; Sam's new state-of-the-art kitchen. One, he knows, that he is never going to use, since work probably won't allow him to do anything but work and sleep. Abaddon & Alastair pay well, but the demands on their employees are not small. Sam's going to survive on takeaway, like always. At least there are a few decent cafés nearby; he won't have to make do with some greasy burger joint. Yet his kitchen is shiny and with a gigantic fridge that probably won't hold much more than Gatorade and carrots.

He's a fool.

The days before he needs to be in the Lawrence office pass by far too quickly. Sam wants the refurbishment to be done before then; he won't have time to deal with furniture and workers and decor after. A truck arrives on the sixth day, and a couple of bulky movers handle the couches and tables and beds, placing everything where Sam wants it. After a few hours of shuffling and carrying stuff around, the house looks like a home. 

Sam's home. Not Dean's, not Castiel's, not Dad's. 

The thought keeps him awake when he finally goes to sleep in his six-thousand-dollar adjustable bed. He turns like a spit-roast chicken until he finally drifts off in the soft nest of down and Egyptian cotton. He wakes up far too early to face the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future. There aren't any actual ghosts; Sam does not believe in them, but his conscience is a decent replacement. At least it is busy telling him what a bad person he is. 

It's a good thing to be bad. He's in corporate law. He knows he's bad; he wouldn't be in this line of work if he wasn't bad. He's a lawyer; he knows how to compromise with his conscience. But the thing is that Sam agrees wholeheartedly with it this time: he's not a badass — he's an asshole. A cheap asshole with a heart of stone all wrapped up in an expensive suit and a exorbitantly outfitted house. God, he's such a jerk. 

Sam turns on the light. He rummages around for his decency; he knew he had it at some point, but it appears to have found somewhere else to live.

Contrary to Castiel Winchester, Dean's _husband_. Dean's kitten. Dean's leftovers.

Morning comes and Sam has slept two hours and taken _one_ decision. 

He has to find Castiel again. He shouldn't have asked him to leave. Hell, _Dean_ shouldn't have asked him to leave. Castiel has just about as much right to the house as Sam, more, even, what with being married to his brother and all. Maybe not in a court of law, but Sam isn't interested what holds in court, not when his conscience has gone on a sudden and unexpected rampage with his peace of mind.

The house is big enough for two. If it is true — and Sam has no reason to think otherwise; he knows when people are lying — that Castiel is married to Dean, the house is not Dean's to give away. Sam can't do that, either. Castiel was here first and throwing him out is probably one of the most immoral, appalling things Sam has done in a while. It's no excuse he had his head so far up his ass when he did it that it's a miracle that he could navigate without crashing into stuff. Back into the light, the decision is not at all difficult. There is a guest room, Dean's old room. Castiel can stay there if he hasn't found somewhere else to live. It's free of memories, Sam thinks; Castiel might not like to sleep in the master bedroom that he shared with his ex-husband, although Sam would willingly give the up if Castiel wanted it. 

Sam knows he's been an asshole, his head filled with too much logic, too much ambition to care about anything but his job. Even when he was hunting with Dad and Dean he wasn't this callous and cruel. Hopefully, he can repair the damage he did. If he can find Castiel again, that is. With no family, Cas might have taken to one of the shelters. But the recession has been hard on Lawrence, too, not even affluent college towns are above it, and the shelters might be full in which case the search is going to be much harder. It has been too long since Sam was in Lawrence last, and he sure didn't care to think about the homeless when there were monsters to hunt. There's an area near the station where people used to sleep in the rough, that much Sam knows. Fuck, he was an ignorant, clueless asshole even then.

With that realization in place, not sure where to start looking, Sam gets up early, he can as well, since he cannot sleep. If he's lucky, he can get to the community shelter during breakfast; maybe some of the people staying there has seen Castiel.

*

Dressed in jeans and t-shirt, Sam doesn't stick out like a sore thumb entirely. Maybe it's because that he has been there, lost and homeless for a while, when he picked up his life after his dad told him he wasn't worth anything. Maybe that's why he turned into an uncaring ass, to cover up how it had felt when he was told he was worth nothing. Looking at the scruffy men and the women with haunted, distressed faces, Sam understands how far he has distanced himself from those times. Admittedly, it is not a time that he particularly cares to remember, but he _should_ have. He should have remembered how he once wanted to be a lawyer so that he could help people. He should have remembered that none of his dreams were about assisting corporate America in its greedy appropriation of wealth. Sam looks at the group of people, gathered because they have nowhere else to go, and it's like they become the personification of how far he has fallen. Dean might have turned and run from Castiel, but Sam has walked into the domain of douchebag law practice all by himself. He wonders if he by accident left his last shred of compassion outside the corner office door. At least he can recover it if that's the case.

The joyless hall is filled with tired furniture and community outreach posters. The air smells of old grease and fresh coffee. Nobody looks at Sam, everybody seem preoccupied with their own misery to notice anybody else. 

But a young woman sends Sam a smile. It is like a wonderful flower in the middle of a concrete desert. It lights up the room and makes Sam take chance of speaking with her. He walks across the hall to her, holding out his hand in greeting. "Hi, I'm Sam."

"Hi, Sam." She cocks her head. "You look lost."

"Not as much as the guy I'm looking for."

A shadow crosses her face. "You're not a cop, are you?"

"No. I'm—" Sam stops, wondering how much he should tell her. He decides to go for the truth, or most of it. "I'm not here because of work. I'm a lawyer. I'm looking for a guy named Castiel. Blue eyes, dark hair. Yea tall. He doesn't have a place to stay, and I wanted to offer him one."

"For real?" She makes an expression that says that she is somewhat impressed. "I thought lawyers were stuck-up asses."

"And you might be right there." Sam will willingly admit that. Comes with the territory. "I'm trying to improve."

"And how's Cas-ti-el going to help with your ass-improve—" Her eyes widen. "Oh. You mean..."

"No!" Sam shakes his head vigorously and it makes all his fears and regrets come tumbling out. "It's not like that. He's my brother's soon-to-be ex-husband, and my brother — I love him, but sometimes he's a total dick — left Castiel, and now he's gone, and—" 

"Whoa, cowboy." She laughs at him. "I'd not advertise the gayness too much, not everybody's... appreciating that. Somebody could decide to take their idiocy out on your guy. And you'd have better luck letting me ask around for you. People out there? They don't know you."

"I'd really appreciate it," Sam says. "Can I get in touch with you... should I come back?"

"Come back when they open for dinner. I might have something for you." Her expression is closed now, as if she's hiding something, or lying. Sam knows a lie when he sees it; he doesn't have to hear the words that go with it. Maybe she wants him gone, or she has seen Castiel and doesn't want to give out the information. She's the only help she's got, so Sam goes with it.

"Thank you." He nods, doesn't offer her money or anything, mostly because he doesn't know if she'd feel offended. "Maybe—"

"Ask for Lindsey."

"Thank you, Lindsey." Sam sends the girl a warm smile. It's a step forward, and he's grateful that she at least attempted to help him, lie or no lie. Whether or not she will be of any actual help has yet to be seen.

Sam decides to leave immediately. He is an intruder; he has received a few looks that make it clear that it would be much appreciated if he left. It's not downright hostile, but Sam knows when he has overstayed his welcome. He walks to the car, determined not to stop searching before he has found Castiel. The sight of the worn men and women in the shelter stays with him. It's a strange society that allows for people to become debris. Here they are all drifting in a vast, violent sea with no safety vest in sight. 

Sam suddenly feels very, very privileged.

*

Sam uses the entire day, driving around in town, visiting shelters and empty lots, but there is no Castiel to be found. It might be a good sign, or a very bad one. Sitting in his car, Sam pulls the lawyer card on the local hospitals until the battery of his cell run empty. At least Castiel hasn't been in an accident, nor has he been mugged or beaten. The logical conclusion to his discoveries should be that Castiel has found a place to stay, but Sam has a feeling that it would be a mistake to think so. Castiel had told him that he had neither friends, nor family in Lawrence. Also, Castiel's obvious helplessness suggests that he probably wouldn't be the type who'd bug his acquaintances with pleas of food or couch-surfing. The guy's a frigging baby and it makes it bad, bad, bad.

"Oh, Dean, what have you done?" Sam sighs, without calling the verdict 'not guilty' on himself. He should have recognized Castiel's fragile state, but instead he was so occupied with his own shitty life and the shitty office and the shitty job that he'd made this poor guy's life the epitome of crappy shittiness. As it is, Sam just prays that he finds Castiel before something unfortunate happens to him. It's a dog eat dog world, and not everybody who depends on the shelters to survive are as kind as the girl he met this morning. Castiel, in his current state, is a sitting duck, an easy target for any predators who are looking to take advantage of him. 

Sam drives around the station once more. The tall AMTRAK neon sign at the restored station blinks at him. He leaves the car and walks down the platform, looking across the tracks for signs or tents behind the shrubbery that makes a nice, if unsafe, shelter. There are people with suitcases on the platform, backpackers and other travelers who are waiting for the next train, but no Castiel. 

Sam is truly worried. He is worried something might have happened to Castiel, he is worried that his empathy has dwindled and turned him into as big an ass as Dean. And there is this nagging feeling that because of everything that has happened since he set foot in Lawrence, his life is about to change. Sam shakes off the worry. He cannot think properly, and right now he needs to think clearly. He _needs_ to find Castiel. For Castiel's sake, and his own. Determined, he drives away from the station, deciding to see if he can find Lindsey again. It's his only chance tonight, that she might know where Castiel is, or that she knows somebody who does. If not, Sam swears he's going to be up early tomorrow to continue the search. He has only three days left before he has to be at the office, working his ass off for people he doesn't like. 

Awesome. 

Parking down the street from the city shelter, Sam sits in the car for a while, watching people arrive, waiting for their evening meal. It's like the powerlessness of losing Castiel spreads. Like Castiel, these people have are flotsam, they're just sinking instead of floating. Sam knows how he _should_ think, at least according to his colleagues: homeless people are lazy leeches, and if they're homeless and poor it's their own fault for not earning enough, saving enough, being healthy enough, being born to the right circumstances. Sam laughs bitterly into the dim light. Not everybody has the drive that he had, using Dad's contempt and Dean's anger to power his first step up the social ladder. He looked to the top from a dysfunctional family on the bottom of society, knowing where he wanted to go. He never looked back. Now that he's on the top, looking down, he's not sure he likes the view as much as he'd thought he would. 

It's the recession. It's not his problem. 

Right. 

He grew up, wanting to _save_ people, not to help rich assholes kick ordinary people further down into the mud. Maybe that's why it has become so important to him to save Castiel. If Castiel wants to be saved, that is. Sam would understand if he doesn't. It's not like the Winchesters have been a rock in Castiel's life, except for the kind that life throws at you.

Now Castiel is Sam's problem, and by proxy, so are the people who share his destiny. There is no way around it: Sam knows that his life has just taken a turn, a fast, surprising, g-force slamming and brutal u-turn. He's probably not going to like it, but to stay on the course he'd he set when he left for Stanford is leading somewhere Sam doesn't want to go. Not any longer. 

"Fucking hell," Sam sneers, and slams his hand down on the steering wheel. And that's the last thing he's going to say about it. He is, if nothing else, flexible. Adaptable. Fuck, he's going to adapt. 

He collects his determination and steps outside the car at the exact moment when he recognizes the young woman he met this morning. She raises a hand in greeting, stopping outside the shelter, clearly waiting for him.

"Hello, Lindsey," Sam says, sending her a relieved smile. "Nice to see you again. You found out anything about Castiel?"

She runs a hand through her hair, nodding. "A guy talked to him down by the river. Your Castiel wears a trench coat, right? Not that there are many who go by that name, I guess. It was down South Powerhouse Road. To the left right before the bridge."

"Thanks a lot!" Sam is so relieved he could cry — if he was still prone to emotional outbursts. Corporate law got that beaten out of him, too, together with common decency. "Anything I can do? Get? For you, I mean? I... I don't wanna offend you, but I have to ask. You've been really kind to me."

Lindsey shakes her head. "World peace?" She smiles at him. "It's what I did before, helped people. I was a receptionist before the recession closed down the company. I'm fine."

"Anyway," Sam says and pulls out one of his new business cards. "If you ever need help." He hands it to her, and she takes it with a nod.

"If we ever meet again, you buy me dinner and tell me your life story." She smiles again before she walks away from him, not looking back.


	3. Discovery

Sam drives back towards Kansas River, annoyed by the GPS's cheery female voice that guides him in the right direction. Sam feels anything but cheery. He turns down a narrow road that twists and turns as it follows the riverside. The road leads up to the old powerhouse and Sam decides to park the car and explore the area by foot. Castiel might have take refuge there if Lindsey's information is reliable. 

The sun is setting, making it difficult to see what's hiding in the shadows. Sam rummages around in the trunk to find a torchlight, just in case. Castiel could be anywhere. There's a tall fence around the hydro plant, but there might be a hole in the brick wall somewhere if the homeless use it as a place to stay at night. Unarmed, apart from the torch, Sam decides that his size has to be protection enough to keep anyone from threatening. He still has a bit of trust left in his fellow man it seems, but he doesn't think he'd be welcomed with open arms. He's an intruder and he knows it. 

He's halfway down the driveway when he hears a loud cry and someone screaming. The roar of the river almost drowns out the shouts. Sam stops for a second, listening for more. Another anguished cry echoes shrill and loud between the walls. Sam starts running towards it, afraid what he will find. Turning a corner, caught in the torchlight, lies a man, face bloody. The hair is blond, so it's not Castiel. He's breathing, but unconscious. Sam decides to check if anybody else is hurt when a second man hobbles into the light, his coat torn. He's holding his arm up, as if it's strained or broken. Sam swings around, trying to determine what has happened to the two men. He points the torch towards the darkest corner of the yard. The light hits a third man.

"Castiel!" Thank God, it's Castiel, and he looks unhurt! Sam takes a step forward, then stops. 

Castiel is staring into the light like a deer, frozen on the spot. He is holding a stick in one hand. 

"Cas! What happened?" Sam is at his side in a second, only to realize that the only person present who isn't hurt, apart from himself, is Castiel. "Cas?" Sam hesitates for an instant before he puts his hand around Castiel's shoulder. Castiel is shivering, tense like a hunted animal.

"They... they tried to make me give them money. And drugs."

"Who? You have drugs?" Sam carefully leads Castiel towards his car. He needs to get Castiel to safety before he looks to the other men. "And the robbers attacked those two guys before they came at you?"

Castiel doesn't reply at first. He shakes his head, almost indiscernible to Sam in the gray dusk. "No. They attacked me. _They_ are the robbers, Sam."

Sam's eyebrows make two perfect and very surprised archs. "You..."

"I can hold my own." Castiel raises his face almost defiantly. He doesn't look like a man who just beat the living daylight out of two thugs. He isn't even breathing hard. "I'm a seventh dan kendōka."

"What does that mean?" Other than Castiel being able to defend himself with very little effort. 

"Why are you here, Sam? You shouldn't be here."

Sam hasn't considered what to tell Castiel and he decides to go for the truth. He favors it these days; it makes life easier. "I came to find you. To apologize, I mean. I was an ass. I should've never asked you to leave; it's your house. I know Dean didn't give it to you and he should have. Unless you want all of it, I guess it's big enough for the both of us, and I'll feed you and, that is if you want me to. So if you don't mind—" Sam pauses, needing air. He's rambling. "Just... I'm sorry. Please, come back to the house with me."

"But Dean—" 

"Dude, Dean _left_ you without a place to stay, without money or food. You don't owe him anything." Sam doesn't care to sweeten _that_ truth. "Unless you beat him up or mistreated him or something. Did you do that?"

Castiel's face is a study in absolutely no comprehension.

"Nah, didn't think you did. Listen, I don't know what went on between you two, but my guess is that Dean got scared. It has happened before, there was this girl, Lisa, and he couldn't handle it. He's not cruel, it's that he doesn't handle commitment very well. And then he sort of is... cruel, I mean, because he should know better than to marry somebody like you. Or anybody, to be honest. He means well, and then things sort of get fucked up." Sam sends the still unconscious man a glance. The man with the broken arm has disappeared. "Maybe we should get out of here. I don't want you to get in trouble. Should I call an ambulance?"

Castiel still doesn't say anything. He stares at Sam in the dark, silent. 

"You okay, Cas?"

"No."

"No, you're not okay, or no, you won't come back to the house with me?"

"I don't know. It's been a..." Castiel's voice trails off. Shoulders slumping, Castiel looks nothing like the tough warrior that Sam just saw. Castiel is a strange mix between naive innocence and kick-ass strength, and Sam is oddly fascinated.

"Please, Cas. Come back with me tonight. We'll decide tomorrow what to do, at least I'll help you find somewhere to stay. I want you safe tonight. I got furniture. You can have the guest—" Sam stops himself there. If Castiel stays, he is not staying as a guest. No matter if he is staying for a night, a week or more, the house is still the place Castiel called home. Sam can convert the attic into an office, and his office into a second bedroom if Castiel stays. Sam wonders whether he can get the movers and the carpenters to come back and do the wanted conversion asap. "Okay, I didn't mean to lecture. Or, you know, pressure you," Sam adds, as if he hadn't already said enough.

Castiel nods. "I don't belong anywhere."

"You belong with me if you want. It's more your house than mine. Dean should have told me about you. I could easily have found somewhere else to live." Sam babbles on. He doesn't know why he has this need to redeem himself to Castiel; maybe it's that he really don't like how he somewhere along the road from Stanford to Lawrence turned into this major, selfish asshole. Maybe it's that Sam finally has decided that he's not going to stay an asshole . 

"Thank you, Sam. But Dean gave the house to you."

"And now I'm giving it back. Dean never should have asked you to go."

"I can't take—" 

"Cas, please."

Castiel's eyes widen. "He... Dean called me Cas."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"It's fine. I like it, coming from you. My family—"

"I understand." Yeah, Sam does. To Dean he is always Sammy, at least he were, and the pet name is like an endearment. Maybe it's that way for Cas too. "What do you say? Let's go home."

Sam puts his hand on Castiel's shoulder, and Cas follows him willingly for a few steps. "No."

"Cas?"

"My duffel. They tried to take it. I have... my clothes. And you don't have to call an ambulance. I merely incapacitated him with a blow to a pressure point."

Sam makes a mental note — underlined, in italics — never to underestimate Castiel again. Castiel might have looked fragile and weak, but who the hell wouldn't, left to care for himself and the broken remains of the life he had with a husband who should have loved him? Sam doesn't offer to go with Cas. Instead he prays that no more muggers are hiding in the dark. Then again, if they have anything that resembles a brain they'll have fled by now. Unless they're in possession of any kind of nuclear weaponry, Sam won't give a dime for their chances, standing against Castiel in his righteous fury. 

Still, Sam keeps an eye on things, as much as it is possible in the dusk and the darkness between the old buildings.

*

The drive back to the house is short and quiet. Castiel doesn't speak. He sits in the passenger seat, silent, clutching the bag that contains his personal possessions. The silence is not strange or awkward; it's natural since they don't know each other, and what's Castiel even supposed to say? Sam doesn't think that Castiel is particularly interested in discussing the reasons for his breakup with Dean, or Dean's breakup with him.

"You okay there, Cas?" Sam asks again, not to start a conversation, just making sure that Castiel is all right. As all right as he can be after living on the streets for more than a week. He'd like Cas to speak, though, get some of the stress out, no matter how.

Castiel turns his head, eyes large and expression haunted, as if Castiel doesn't really understand why this is happening to him. He presses his lips together and looks down at his hands. He fiddles with the straps on the duffel. "Thank you, Sam. It was kind of you to come for me."

Sam smiles, but it's a sad smile. He knows avoidance when he sees it. "I understand that you're not interested in speaking to me. But you have to tell me if you're hurt, okay? I guess the kung-fu stuff you did makes you damned strong, but I don't believe it makes you invincible." Sam mentions the martial art thing, hoping it might make it clear that it's fine if Castiel wants to talk about... anything.

"Kenjutsu. Or kendo, if you prefer. That is the modern form. It's Japanese swordsmanship. Kung-fu is Chinese. And kung-fu is hand-to-hand combat."

Sam hides the relieved sigh he lets out. Good. Castiel speaks. "And you're good at it." It's not a question, because it was very obvious that Castiel is not only good at it, but exceptionally good. "And you're some kind of wax-on, wax-off guy of this ken... kenjitsu?"

Castiel frowns. "I don't understand."

"You are some kind of master fighter? I mean, you took down two guys all by yourself, almost like nothing?"

"Oh. Yes."

As Castiel clearly isn't going to elaborate, Sam asks him, "The, what was it, seven dan, you spoke about, that's like a black belt or something?"

"No." Castiel looks out the window at the dark street. "Seventh dan. Eighth dan is equivalent to a black belt, but it is not possible to graduate until I turn forty-six. An eighth dan is not about physical strength, but about maturity and mental strength as well. And superior physical strength, of course. One has to develop as a human being first. It is—" Castiel stops, his voice breaking. 

Again Sam wonders what the hell Dean was doing with this philosophical and sensitive man. It couldn't have been for Cas's strength alone, or his handsome face. It's a mismatch if there ever was one, unless there is more to it than pure physical attraction. "Cas?"

It takes a long time before Castiel answers. "I hated it when Dean called me a ninja turtle. He said it was because Leonardo..."

Sam takes a deep breath. "I think we can establish by now that Dean isn't always thinking clearly. But I'm sure he didn't do it to be mean. He always calls me 'bitch'. He's a jerk." Sam tries to remember something, anything, about the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and he vaguely recalls Leonardo as the oldest, most mature turtle — with swords. He gets it, but Cas sure isn't a slow turtle with anything that can be used as a weapon in hand. He meant it, however, when he said that Dean hadn't intended to be mean. Dean never does, but at times that goes so terribly wrong. The proof of that is right before Sam's eyes. "I'm sorry, Cas. I didn't mean to pry."

Castiel has become 'Cas' without more complains to Sam about the pet name. Sam becomes increasingly curious to why Dean took him in in the first place. Cas is beautiful, no doubt about it, but that's not enough. Dean is aiming for big tits and a quick departure. Apart from Lisa, Dean has never had a relationship that lasted longer than the six months he spent with her. He never had a relationship with a man, either, not to Sam's knowledge. Sam wonders what the hell happened that made Dean leave the closet; seeing that he married Cas, Dean sure is as bi— as they come, not that he ever told anybody else. But the guy sitting next to him in the car is sort of a clear indication of how serious Dean's is. Was. 

Maybe it really was gay panic. Serious gay panic.

They drive the rest of the short distance to the house in total silence, the only sounds the occasional rustle of Castiel's trench coat and the constant soft hum of the car's electric motor. Sam pulls up outside the house. Castiel stares at it, showing no sign of getting out of the car.

"It's white."

"I had painters come do repairs and maintenance."

"Obviously." Castiel says dryly. 

"It was necessary. I know you did your best with it, but Dad never took much pride in keeping it in good shape after Mom died." Sam waits a second to give Castiel room to reply if he wants it. "I really meant it when I said I'd like you to share with me. It really should be your house. I'm leaving in a year; I'm only here because my job wanted me here. So next Christmas I'm returning to New York. If you want, I'll just have the paperwork done, I mean, in your name, now or later."

"That is very generous of you, Sam. I can't possibly take it."

"We can talk about it again later, yes? For now, I really want a roommate, and I want it to be you."

"I don't have a job. I can't pay rent. I should probably—"

"Do you cook?"

"Yes. I can make a sandwich."

"See? It's going to work. I really don't need the rent money, but it'd be great if I didn't have to shop and clean, so maybe I could hire you to do that? At least until you find a job you like better?" 

Sam has no idea what Castiel has been doing for a living, maybe the martial arts thing? He doesn't know whether Cas has any education or work experience. He knows very little about Cas at all, and maybe the moving in together isn't such a great idea after all? They are strangers to each other, and maybe he's pressing too hard?

"The recession," Cas says, as if it's explanation enough. It is. "I'm an accountant," he elaborates, finally turning his head to look at Sam. "And you're a lawyer. Stanford. Dean told me. He didn't tell that you were coming to live here. There is a lot he forgot to tell me." Castiel suddenly sounds bitter.

"I'm sorry," Sam says again. "And I didn't know about you, either. I wouldn't have acted like a total douche... I at least hope I wouldn't have, if I had known. I'd have helped you. As you say, there is a lot he forgot to tell." So Cas is an accountant? He really is a strange, multifaceted person; once Sam thinks he has seen it all, there is new information that screws up the picture, forcing Sam to rethink the image of Castiel... Castiel... Sam realizes he doesn't even know Cas's last name.

"Is your last name..."

"Novak." Castiel says it hard and cold, like he doesn't like it at all. "I signed the papers. I am not a Winchester."

Fuck the papers whatever they are, Sam thinks that it might be the divorce settlement, Castiel is still family in some awkward way. But if he doesn't want to be a Winchester, Sam sure can understand why. Sam can understand it so well that he is going to rip Dean a new one when he gets a hold of him. And probably a few other orifices. Fine if Dean wants to ditch his husband; there is just the way to do it, and the way not to do it. At least Dean told Cas to his face instead of texting him. That might keep Sam from throttling his moronic brother. Maybe.

"Okay, Castiel Novak. Sam nods. He leans in and puts a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "So, Mr Novak... will you do me the honor of moving in with me?" he asks. smiling, hoping that Castiel takes Sam's formal request for what it is. 

For the first time since they met, Castiel sends Sam a real, pleased smile. If he was handsome before, he is stunning now, the smile warm and wide and wonderful. "Thank you, Mr Winchester, I'd like that very much." Castiel breathes out, as if the pain of divorce and the burden of being homeless and unemployed are a little lighter to carry. Except Cas isn't homeless any longer. He has a home with Sam for as long as he wants it.

Sam smiles back, looking into Cas's eyes for a second, reading relief there, and gratitude.

"If you'll let me accompany you to our humble abode, then?" Sam asks, relieved, too, that Castiel still has any smiles left to give.

Castiel makes a gracious nod. "Please."


	4. Determination

Sam is suddenly happy that he spent so much on furniture and refurbishment. Nothing remains that might remind Castiel of the life he had with Dean. Yes, the house is there, what little is left of it apart from the outer walls — walls that are no longer covered by a sad and faded skin, peeling and open-wounded, but instead pristine white and fresh and clean. There are no more tired wallpapers, no more rusty fittings and broken basins. There is an office where before there was none, and one room has been turned into a large and luxurious bathroom with a huge tub and a shower that doesn't give Sam a crick in the neck when he washes his hair. The guest bedroom is Dean's old room, made larger by adding the old bathroom. Sam's old bedroom is now the en suite bath, and the old guest bedroom has been turned into an office. Sam will willingly vacate it and let Castiel have a second room if he so desires.

It is with some peace of mind that Sam walks up the path to the house. His and Cas's house. It feels comforting, sharing the space with someone. He never thought it would be someone like Cas, but he'll take it, he'll more than take it. Cas is intelligent and intriguing. Better than anyone Sam could have hoped for.

Cradling his duffel in both arms, Castiel trails along like a shy puppy, perhaps unsure that he is really wanted. Sam pulls out the key, the lock brand new and state of the art. It's not that Lawrence has that many break-ins, but Sam likes the relative safety of good locks. The three new keys jangle and clink merrily. He opens the key ring and offers Castiel one of the keys. "I want you to feel at home," Sam says and pushes at the door to the hall, stepping aside to let Castiel in. The old carpet has been stripped and the wooden floors sanded and varnished. It's a light and friendly house now, white walls and the floors' old wood golden. A soft silk Keshan covers half the floor, muting their steps. Castiel turns around to look at Sam. 

"It's different," Cas says. "It's not the same house."

"As I said, I want you to feel at home. If there is anything you want... I mean, I guess you liked the house neat since you painted... If there is anything you need, you should—"

"Yes." Castiel doesn't elaborate; there is no need to. They both know Dean. Dean might have cared about the state of the house, but he would never have cared about how it looked as long as there were beer in the fridge and edible food on the table.

Castiel puts down the duffel, looking into the living room. It is cozy and warm despite the white walls: the fireplace is restored and deep rugs are spread casually artful on the whitewashed floor. Sam likes the decor, but maybe Castiel doesn't find it nice? Sam watches as Castiel, still wearing his dirty, ragged trench coat, walks along the walls, stroking the back of the new couch, touching a bookcase filled with paperbacks, carefully avoiding the new rugs. 

"It's... pretty." Castiel's expression is apprehensive. 

Sam doesn't think Castiel looks uncomfortable as such. Maybe enough of the memories and the pain have disappeared with the old wallpaper, hidden under layers of paint. Then again, Cas has barely had time to mourn his broken relationship before he was thrown out into the street. Sam frowns at the thought. He swears silently that he will never again be so callous, not to Cas, not to anyone.

"Yes," Sam says, because it's the truth. The house is pretty, nice enough to make it to the pages in a less fancy home and garden magazines.

"It is very..." Cas shakes his head.

He could just as well have said it as it is: it's expensive, too much money spent on furniture and accessories. Last week, Sam couldn't have cared less, on the contrary, he'd have considered the house and the interior a part of who he is, who he was: a successful and upcoming lawyer. Now it seems elaborate and decidedly unnecessary. With Cas's poverty contrasting the luxury of the room, Sam knows he has made the right decision, asking Cas to come here. It will serve as a reminder of what Sam was and what he was about to become. 

"I have decided to go back to the shelter," Sam says. He's standing in the door frame, watching Castiel. It's not an unpleasant sight. 

Castiel turns and looks at him. "Did you forget something?" It hangs in the air, the unspoken question: Whether Sam has regretted his offer, now trying to get out of it, taking Cas back to the shelter like an unwanted kitten. 

Sam laughs softly, his laughter tinged with bitterness. Yeah, he'd see why Cas would think that. It's not as if he has the best of experience with the Winchester family. And Sam sure has forgotten something: he has forgotten how it felt to be powerless and poor, being nothing more than debris on an ocean of despair. 

"Maybe I can help. I guess some of the people staying there might need a lawyer. I mean, if I can help some of them to get back into a home or a job..." 

Abaddon and Alastair are going to kill him; they don't do pro bono work, but Sam somehow can't be bothered to worry. He had forgotten how it was to go hungry as he strolled up the road to fortune. He had forgotten how it was to wait for Dean to come back with the meager supplies their dad's even more meager salary allowed them. But he remembers now, every moment of it. He remembers how their eyes looked, his and Dean's, all dark with hunger and hopelessness. It's the same look he saw today, in Cas's eyes, in the eyes of people who lost their homes, their jobs. It's the eyes of this world's Castiels, the Lindseys, all the homeless, unemployed people out there. He remembers all too well how the eyes look when people don't dare hope to find their way to a better life.

"You _really_ want to do that?" Castiel's eyes are bright and innocent, as if the promise is enough to bring back hope to him once more. 

"I met this girl, Lindsey. Maybe I could start there, ask her if she needs legal advice. I gave her my card. I don't think she's gonna call. She said she didn't need anything."

Cas stops and looks at Sam as if he's assessing him. It's a scrutinizing look, and somehow Sam can see how Castiel might be good with numbers; in that moment he looks like a tax accountant who adds and subtracts and comes up with the exact right result. He looks like someone who that takes shit from no one. 

No one but Dean. 

Some miscalculation there. Sam is still itching to get a hold of Dean, but that is for later. Unless Dean has a really good explanation, he'll be sporting several new orifices, all courtesy of Sam and Cas doesn't need to overhear that conversation. Dean is going to live up to his responsibility and if he doesn't do it willingly, Sam will make him.

For now, Sam'll be taking care of Cas, doing what Dean should have done, and somehow it isn't bad, even though Sam's life has been turned on his head. Saddled with a roommate he doesn't want, and with the burden of taking care of an unemployed homeless guy, it doesn't feel bad at all. It's different, but definitely not bad. If Sam has to say so, it feels... right. For once he's doing the right thing, and it makes him feel more accomplished than he has been feeling in a long time, sucking up to Abaddon & Alastair's corporate asshole clients.

"Sam?" Castiel regards him with renewed scrutiny, head cocked, as if he is a big bird, watching something very interesting or confusing.

"Yeah. Sorry. I was just thinking... not what I'd planned two weeks ago. I mean this. Us."

"Oh." Castiel's face falls. "If you don't want me here, I can go back to—"

"No!" Sam almost shouts. "I _like_ it. I like _you_. I want you to stay, Cas, please!" Before Castiel can protest, Sam grabs his hand and hauls him towards the stairs. He doesn't stop but picks up Castiel's duffel on the fly, not taking anything but 'yes, Sam, I'm staying' for an answer. "You're staying," Sam says again, looking over his shoulder at Cas as he pulls him with him to the upper floor. "And if you run, I'll come find you and haul you back."

Castiel laughs. It is surprising. "I'd like to see you try," he says, his voice dark and rough.

The words make Sam's stomach tingle. He likes a lot about Cas, but he likes it especially when Cas's power surfaces and reminds Sam that Cas might be a kitten, a puppy, but he sure isn't a defenseless little animal. Abandoned, but very far from defenseless.

*

For the first night since he arrived Sam goes to bed, turns off the light and falls asleep immediately. He sleeps until the alarm blares. He fumbles for it as he tries to determine where the delicious smell of coffee and what might be eggs and bacon comes from. His brain catches up with his nose a second later.

Castiel.

Clearly Cas takes his new role as housekeeper very seriously. 

The shiny kitchen has found a purpose other than to provide Sam with a place to store his take-away leftovers. The small dining table is set with plates and cups, and Castiel, messy-haired and in a sweatshirt that might have been Dean's, is flipping pancakes like a pro at the similarly shiny six-burner stove.

"You're up early," Sam remarks casually. He might have offered Cas to cook in exchange for a place to live, but he's not his servant. "I'll make breakfast for you tomorrow," he adds, to ensure Castiel understands. They share a house, the expenses and the chores, and as Sam has a job, he's going to pay for most of the expenses. That's only fair. If one doesn't keep the Abaddon & Alastair mindset, that is. Sam chuckles at the thought. The more he think about it, the more he realizes that he's been selling himself, his goals and his soul to a company who only cares about him when he delivers what they bought: a young human pit bull, ready to go to war and fight to the death. For money. 

"Sam?" Castiel has been speaking and Sam hasn't heard a word of it. 

"Sorry. I was thinking. I have to go into the office tomorrow, and I really don't want to. I think maybe it was a mistake to come here. Not because of you!" Sam hurries to sort that out. Castiel is still skittish, and Sam doesn't want him to bolt again. "I think I might have taken a turn somewhere along the road. Lost my sense of direction."

Castiel doesn't say anything. He puts a stack of butter-soaked pancakes in front of Sam. It's death by clogged veins, but Sam doesn't care. It smells too good.

"Thanks." Sam grabs a fork and looks at Cas expectantly. 

"Oh." 

Cas sits down on the chair across. He studies the full table for a while. Sam leaves him to it. He still _does_ remember how it was to go hungry and suddenly have access to proper food. To have a _choice_. 

"You were an accountant before?" Sam asks, partly because he wants to know more about Castiel, partly because he wants Cas to feel at home, to feel safe and to ask questions too. "What happened?" They both know what happened, except if Cas did something truly surprising, like stealing from the company. It's the recession. It's always the recession these days. 

Cas has finally decided on bacon and eggs, orange juice and coffee. He butters a bun as he replies. "It wasn't the recession."

It's Sam's turn to let out an "Oh."

"I refused to toe the company line. I got demoted and they brought in Zachariah. It did not turn out well."

"You... in this economy?" Not many people would have dared, but not many people are like Cas, Sam knows that already. He might be sensitive and strange, but he sure doesn't lack courage. "You told them to go fuck themselves?"

"It's called integrity, Sam. I was their good little soldier for a long time, and when I began to think for myself they did not like it."

"I admire your determination," Sam says. "Not very many would have risked everything for what they believe in."

Castiel's fork hangs in the air. "I had Dean," Castiel says quietly. "I dared risk anything."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"I learned my lesson, Sam. Don't trust anyone. Don't fight for what you believe in. Don't do anything that puts you out of work. Don't love anything. Or anyone." The last words are hard and harsh and bitter.

"Doesn't seem like a great lesson to me."

"I learned. I didn't say that I'd act accordingly."

Sam smiles. "There is that. I guess you trust me?"

Castiel looks up, his eyes innocent and soft, as if he never had been hurt and betrayed. "I'm here."

"So you are." Sam nods. Cas has faith in him, he has to believe that. Sam starts eating. They don't need to discuss the thin, spindly creature of trust. It's not necessary. If Cas didn't trust him he would have been gone when Sam woke up. Picking up his fork, Sam starts eating. 

The pancakes are really good.

*

After breakfast, Sam retreats to his new office. He has a mug of perfectly brewed coffee (courtesy of Cas) in his left hand and a pile of folders (less courteously provided by Alastair) at his right. They are all marked _A & A - Confidential_. Sam knows he should read them through, but somehow he can't bring himself to begin. Merely opening one of the files denotes that he is selling his soul, if not to the devil, then to a couple of lawyers who sure are willing to take over if Lucifer himself should quit the job as king of Hell. Sam begins to think that he'd prefer Lucifer, given the choice. One doesn't get to be the morning star without redeeming qualities.

Grabbing a pen, Sam starts outlining the office he might be able to fit in if he converts the attic into something livable. Then Cas can have Sam's office for whatever purpose. Maybe he'd like a room to practice his martial arts thing? Sam scribbles and doodles for a while, taking slow sips of the hot coffee. Somewhere in the background Castiel potters around, vague sounds of life and domesticity that Sam enjoys. He hadn't thought he'd like to have another person in the house, all used to living alone as he is, but Cas's presence is relaxing, as if he belongs here. He does, that's why he's here after all, but it's more than that. It's... homely. Cozy. Good.

Sam groans and pushes his new refurbishment plan away, turning to _work_. He makes a face at the top folder as he opens it. _Zachariah Fuller, business manager_ , it says, labeled neatly on the front. There's a photo inside of a man who could have looked nice, had his expression not been smug and superior. Great. At least he won't be superior to Sam, since Sam is supposed to be A & A Lawrence's executive officer as well as a partner. Sam pushes the folder aside and opens the next. _Balthazar Freely_. It's going to be a long and boring morning.

The smell of food is what tears Sam away from his duties. He might have taken a leaf out of Dean's book, because the scent of frying meat and the sound of clanking pots and pans make Sam's teeth water in the most Pavlovian of ways. Deciding that he is done and prepared for his first day at work, Sam leaves the folders and his desk and walks downstairs to the kitchen. 

Castiel looks at home there, too, moving with an efficient grace that makes Sam watch him for a minute without speaking. 

"Set the table and stop staring at me," Castiel says with a casual glance at Sam, before he turns his back to him, stirring something in one of the pots. "Plates for pasta and salad, please."

Sam gets to work, performing a slow dance with Castiel as they move around and along each other, filling plates and cleaning up. They work seamlessly, smoothly, and soon lunch is ready. "I'm going to get fat," Sam says as he flops down in his chair across from Cas. "And I don't care." The combined smells of sun-dried tomatoes, fresh basil and minced meat drizzled with Parmesan tease his nose, and his stomach decides to join in, letting out a loud growl. "I'll make us dinner, okay? Not sure I'm able to cook anything like this."

"I'm not picky," Castiel informs him, as if he didn't know. "I can make dinner. I like to cook."

"I can see that. Thank you." Sam takes a bite, pasta and tomato sauce soft and spicy on his tongue. "Mmm!" He chews and thinks. The food is great. He's so fucking grateful that Castiel even cares to care for him like this. Yeah, it tastes great, but Sam knows he has things to do to make everything taste better. "I'd like to go back to the shelter later, like I said, to see if there is anything I can do to help. You wanna come with me?"

Castiel stares at him, curiously, head cocked. "You really meant it." His expression changes. It might be appreciation, probably not something Cas has in spades, when it comes to the Winchester family.

"Yeah. So, you're coming?"

"Of course."

"I told you I met this girl," Sam begins. "Lindsey."

"So it's about the girl?" Castiel frowns, narrow-eyed. He looks like a man who doesn't like what he hears. "It's really about a—"

"No!" Sam laughs. "She helped me find you and I think she might help us find people who could use our help."

"I like that," Castiel agrees. "But I don't think I can be of much help."

"You're an accountant, right?" It's not a question that need an answer, so Sam doesn't wait for one. "I'm in corporate law, and I have seen how companies screw people over. You are good with numbers, and that comes in handy when I start dragging said companies into court for robbing people of their rightful salary or for being terminated wrongfully. I could let you kick corporate ass for me, but I don't think it's the right way to go." Sam sends Cas a teasing smile. "I could always hire you as my bodyguard. I might need one when Abaddon & Alastair find out I'm going to use my precious spare time on 'people who lack work ethics and get too much welfare as a reward' as they use to call people in unfortunate circumstances." Sam winches at his own words. It's not that he agrees, he sure doesn't. It's that he'd let it slide every time he heard it, where instead he should have stood up for his beliefs and told Abaddon and Alastair where they could shove their Tea Party opinions.

Cas smiles. "I'm getting up in the world. Yesterday I was homeless, then a housekeeper, now a bodyguard?"

Sam smiles back. Cas is talented, well-educated, handsome, and fucking hell, Dean is such an idiot to leave someone like him. Cas is _perfect_. "I think you can do anything you wanna do, Cas, be anything you wanna be. Fighting poverty is hard and doing it alone is downright impossible. But you don't have to fight alone anymore."

"And neither do you. I'll come." Cas nods, his face determined. Cas might not be good at fighting alone, but with someone equally strong at his side? Oh, poverty is going to get a kick in its ugly face, and Sam will be happy to stand by and watch it bleed.


	5. Chosen

Sam stares at the business cards. They are cream-colored and heavy with A & A's characteristic fake heraldic badge on it. It's Abaddon's idea; something about the firm being knights, fighting the battle for their clients. Sam thinks it's stupid and entirely _declassé_ , but the references to some kind of made-up noble family clearly work. Maybe corporate America is less intelligent than Sam thought, or Abaddon is simply that good. Seeing that they have to refuse Fortune 500 clients at least a few times a year, Abaddon could probably write her name and phone number on a piece of toilet paper, and clients would still stand in line to get legal counsel.

Sam throws the business cards back into the drawer. He can't use those. Instead he digs out some heavy paper and fires up Word. He prints a few sheets with rows of his name, academic credentials and cell phone number before he gets to work, chopping up the prints in neat, business card-sized pieces. It's better that way. He'll get into trouble when A & A realize what he's doing, but Sam won't add to it by using the law firm's business cards. Plus, the people at the shelter won't be as suspicious of him. Everybody knows what kind of company Abaddon & Alastair is. 

Sam knows it too, only far too well. Now he's ashamed he chose to ignore it so that he could sell his soul for to them.

God, he was such a soulless dick. A better lawyer, yes, when conscience and kindness don't come into play. Ruthless, soulless, cold. It's bad, really bad. Because Sam knows that he'd have continued being a rich, soulless dick, had Cas not showed up and handed him back his missing soul. Now it's too late, not that Sam wants to change it, because Sam feels... He doesn't even know what he feels. 

Ashamed?

He knows that he is nothing but a top class prostitute. He has been for sale to the highest bidder, and it stops _now_. Sam wants, needs, to change.

He cannot disappoint Castiel. He can't bear to think about the look in his eyes, the sadness and despair, another betrayal from another Winchester. "It's not happening," Sam tells himself, the words strangely clear in the silent office. Sam grabs the small pile of homemade cards and goes to find Castiel.

*

There are things that cannot be changed, at least not until Sam has bought new clothes. At the shelter stands out. He his shoes are handmade leather boots, and his jeans flash a golden _Giorgio Armani_ stitched onto the lining. Sam doesn't know where his head was when he bought them: he'd have thought it impossible to try on a $1100 pair of jeans with his head so far up his ass as it had been at that point in his life. He isn't going to dress differently, dressing down to pretend he's anything but a well-to-do lawyer, it's not that, but Armani and handmade shoes is to rub it in people's faces, and Sam doesn't want to do that. His shopping habits are going to change; quality is fine, bu he has no use for over-priced brands any longer. There is no one he needs to impress; he's quite sure he's never again going to be invited to the partners' retreat, or to any of the exclusive country clubs that the A  & A partners frequent, not when Alastair finds out what Sam is doing with his precious free time.

Sam has turned himself into a leper, merely by wanting to showing kindness to others. But he'll live. He sure can do without the retreats and the country clubs and the benefit galas that are more beneficial to A & A than to the cause they support. Somehow it holds no allure to him now, sucking up to Botox'd trophy wives and their money-hungry husbands to land yet another client. Sitting next to him, the threadbare trench coat wrapped around him, Castiel looks very much like the ragged people waiting in line for their next meal. Cas isn't partner retreat material, either, and it makes Sam glad that he isn't. 

God, he had been such a fool, abandoning all the ideals he had when he set foot at Stanford for the first time. He can't even remember how long it had taken before the beautiful dreams he had about being a warrior for the people were eroded and gone. 

"It's funny," he says aloud, staring out of the window, not looking at Cas, "that last week I'd have driven past this place, ignoring it."

"I don't see how that is funny," Cas says. "But I think you understand now."

Sam makes a sound, the bastard child between a laugh and a snort. "No, it really isn't funny. Tragic, mostly." Sam reaches over and squeezes Cas's arm. "So... thanks. I mean... your situation wasn't exactly enviable, but it did something good. It made me see again."

Cas is about to reply when someone hits the windshield with a fist. Sam yelps, shocked, but not afraid.

"Fuck off!" the guy outside bellows at them. "The zoo in in the next town, assholes!" There's a girl with him. She's maybe five or six, with a haunted, pale expression as she stares at the man who might be her father. "Fuck off, I said!"

Sam can barely hear the words but the intention is clear.

"Stay," Cas orders and opens the door. He slides outside, catlike, as if every moment of his training as a kung-whatever-master is ingrained deeply in his body.

Of course Sam doesn't want to stay, but he needs to let Cas do his thing. Not that he has been homeless for long, but his chances of getting the angry guy to calm down are probably better than his, since Sam's mere presence seems like an offense.

Castiel walks around the car, slowly. His face is expressionless, calm, neither afraid, nor angry. Sam can see his lips move, but he can't hear what Castiel is saying. The angry guy doesn't seem less angry. Sam can't blame him; the situation for this man is probably straining, humiliating and stressful. Sam stays down. As long as the angry guy doesn't get any angrier, he stays. Sam slides low into the seat, trying to appear nonthreatening and unassuming. He doesn't think that he is very successful. Maybe trying to help people other than Castiel wasn't such a great idea as he has no idea what he's doing? 

The angry guy starts shouting again. There is something desperate about it. Sam decides that he better get out, not that he can do anything that Cas can't do ten times better if it comes to a fight, but at least he wants to show his support. Castiel is not going to deal with this alone. He's not going to deal with _anything_ by himself again, if it's up to Sam. Cas is still not rattled, at least he doesn't look like he is. Sam opens the door slowly and he's halfway out the car when he hears a voice he recognizes. 

"Hey, Sam! Castiel!" It's Lindsey who comes running more than walking towards them. "I see you found each other. Problems?" She smooths her hair back in place as she sends the man a less than friendly glare.

"Wonderful," the angry man sneers. "Trailer Trash Barbie wants to join the fun."

"Oh, come on, Chambers. You're not like this. There's no need to be rude, you're just as homeless as I am. And it's not Castiel's fault that the economy is shot and that your landlord screwed you over big time. We're all fucked here."

Sam takes a deep breath. This might be the stupidest move he'd ever made, but up where the sun doesn't shine with that. "Excuse me, sir," he says. "You had trouble with your landlord? Then maybe I can help? It won't cost you anything but your time." Sam pulls out one of the homemade business cards. "I'm a lawyer, and I'd be happy to look at your case if you want me to."

The tiny girl pulls at her dad's sleeve, immediately defusing the situation, at least for the moment. "Dad, please?"

Sam is back twenty-five years in an instant, Dean and he begging their dad not to go on a drunken rampage. For a few seconds Sam can't breathe because he knows exactly how the small girl feels. It's not a pleasant feeling. It's anger and fear and at times a beating. It's the violation of everything it means to be a parent, and of everything it should mean to be a child. 

But Chambers doesn't turn and hit the kid. Instead all the fight in him evaporates in an instant, his shoulders slumping as if he has no hope left, nothing to hold him up. "I'm sorry, Krissy." He closes his eyes, shaking his head, as if the entire scene might disappear if he refuses to open them. 

"Dad?"

Chambers opens his eyes and kneels down to pull Krissy into his arms. He sighs and looks up at them. "My daughter has better manners than me," he says. "I apologize. There is no excuse for my behavior. I... I'm..."

Except there is. Too much pressure makes people act irrationally. At least he kept his anger to shouting and hitting stuff and not people. "Apology accepted," Sam says. He refrains from commenting; patronizing the man by waxing poetically about how it's the recession and society and bad luck will only make everything worse. "So, what can I do for you?"

*

"And she never returned." Chambers —whose first name turns out to be Lee —explains. Finally calm and sitting down, he's a quiet and unassuming man, polite and surprisingly intelligent.

They are sitting in a corner of the crowded soup kitchen, at a rickety table that creaks every time Sam writes a note on the pad that Castiel has procured from one of the volunteers. It's vastly different from his Manhattan office, but it feels _right_ , even though the room smells of cabbage and bowl cleaner. 

"That could be a problem," Sam says, slightly worried on Krissy's behalf. "Do you know anything about where she went?"

"No." Lee shakes his head. "We weren't married, her mom and me, so nobody will tell me anything. And they refused to let us stay at the shelter because we haven't— Lee makes air quotes. "—demonstrated that we're a 'family unit'. As if Krissy appeared out of nowhere."

"Did you fill out the voluntary acknowledgment of paternity at some point? Or a paternity consent form?" Sam asks. He really hopes that it is just a question of looking through a few files and make sure it's registered with the Department of Health and Environment.

"Yes. Not right away, but later. Before Krissy started kindergarten. But some of my personal papers... the landlord..."

Good. Sam is satisfied. If the school in question has registered both parents, it's probably a mistake that Lee has been rejected. "We can work with that. Tell my why you were evicted, please."

"He said he didn't want single parents in the building. I had to leave Krissy for a few hours to apply for jobs. Mrs Foster, she lives across, had promised to look after her, and she didn't. I couldn't afford a babysitter."

"I don't need a sitter," Krissy states. "I'm six." She contradicts her statement by curling up on her father's lap, her eyes drooping. 

Clearly Lee is proud of his independent offspring, because he just kisses her on the top of her head. "My landlord told me there has been complaints and that he would contact CPS since Krissy didn't receive proper _guidance_." Lee's face turns tired and haunted. "The thing is that he might be right." He rubs a hand across his face. I can't let them take Krissy away. I can't find a job, and now we're here, nowhere to go, all our stuff in the car, and the assh-," he stops, making a sharp cough.

"Asshat," Krissy says, unimpressed with her father's language and obviously taking after him.

"The _unpleasant man_ ," Lee corrects, wiggling his finger in front of Krissy's face, chastising her gently, "has our deposit and what remains of our stuff. He locked us out." 

Sam is determined not to laugh. He cannot laugh, but the kid is too damned cute and bossy. He distracts himself by turning the possible outcomes of a law suit in his head. "Let's start with the most pressing problem. You need a place to stay tonight. We can handle that. And if we have to deal with the custody problem in a few days, you really need a decent place. You have the right to re-apply immediately for a place in the shelter without a waiting period since you were evicted from your apartment. You can apply tomorrow, and I'll help you if you want to do that. But we have to find something more permanent." Sam knows he might need a judge to sign the papers if they have gone missing and the paternity consent form cannot be found. Lee is clearly a good man, but his living conditions are a problem. There need to be some permanency, or the judge might decide to let CPS take over. It's not happening, but Sam's going to make damned sure that no child is left to fend for herself while her father goes to look for work.

"Yes. Yes, please. Thank you." Lee makes a deep sigh, like it's new to him to actually have people step up to help. "It's not like there is anything I can do; it's like we turn invisible when we reach this point." He waves his hand, indicating the shelter. "Nobody cares what happen to us."

"I do," Sam says and it's the truth. "Listen, tomorrow we go to the police. No, wait. I can't."

Lee's ragged face shows no disappointment. He's probably used to it by now, having people come to help, and then have them go back on their promise.

"It's not like that," Sam says. "I have to go show my face at the law firm. First day at the new job. Luckily, I'm the boss, so I'll make sure we can go the day after tomorrow, if that suits you?"

"I don't have anything else to do. The unfortunate side effect to unemployment."

"Unemployment does not give me the right to tell you what to do or to make plans on your behalf," Sam says quietly. "Anyway, police. We have to; unlawful eviction and harassment are criminal offenses. I don't know what the police's going to do, though, but rest assured, I _will_ make your landlord pay you a nice amount as compensation for locking you out and keeping your things. I know of a case from New York where a landlord was ordered to pay $500,000 to a single dad that he evicted, then threw his belongings out into the rain. I am going to make your landlord regret he even met you before I'm done with him."

Yeah, Sam knew of a case. Because he'd been the one been defending that particular asshole of a landlord. Abaddon had ripped Sam a new one for losing, the first case he had lost for Abaddon & Alastair —not the last, there had been more lost cases, of course —but that first one had hurt. It hurts more now that his eyes are open, and for entirely different reasons. But Sam doesn't say that, because then he could just as well admit that he'd been a soulless douche who'd make Lee's landlord look like an angel in comparison. Sam is not ready to confess that to the world, not yet. It is difficult enough, admitting it to himself, and to Cas.

Lee's mood improves considerably. "Oh, I'm in. Not for the money, but to erase the memory of his smug, annoying smile when he dangled the keys to the new lock in front of me." Lee's smile, in turn, turns predatory. "Somehow I am not in doubt that you can wipe it off of him. You look like a capable young man, Sam."

"Sam is very... persistent," Cas suddenly adds. "If he says he can help you win the case, you should trust him."

Sam is strangely touched by the vote of confidence. He smiles at Cas. Cas's eyes are warm, like he sees something in Sam that Sam himself had forgotten was there.

They are talking the details through, Krissy fast asleep in her father's lap, when a woman approaches them. She looks like the epitome of an old school librarian, if all one's prejudices and media-induced ideas of old school librarians were gathered and shoved into one small bespectacled package. A package with sensible shoes and a fake string of pearls around the neck. 

"And you are?" she asks, the eyes hard behind the glasses. "We don't take kindly to poverty tourism here. If you are a journalist, I'll have to ask you to contact our administrator tomorrow. Mr Chambers, unfortunately, were asked to lea—"

"No... I mean, I'm sorry." Sam scrambles to get up. "And we'll leave." He fumbles with his pen, and the paper he's been writing notes on slides onto the floor. Castiel bends down to pick it up as Sam looks for the remains of his dignity. He doesn't find them, so he opts for politeness. "I'm sorry" he repeats and sticks his hand out in greeting. "Hello, nice to meet you. I'm Sam Winchester. I'm here to help. Not just Lee. Anybody who needs it."

The woman looks at him, all headmistress-like and strict. She ignores his hand.

"I'm a lawyer," Sam volunteers, hoping it will appease her. "I thought I could volunteer? Erm. At the shelter?" Sam feels like he's shrinking. He puts his hand in his pocket Another cold stare from her, and he's going to drop between the floorboards, turned into a cockroach by the steely glare of one tiny and very protective woman. Sam's sure she could out-stare even Abaddon. 

"You know who I am, Miss Rebecca," Cas says, offering his support. His hand brushes over Sam's arm, as if he wants to tell Sam that he's with him. "I can help too. I'm an accountant. Was an accountant. Sam gave me a place to stay. He's all right."

She nods. "A few of them could use that. A lawyer." She looks at the people standing in line for a night's sleep and a meal. "If you vouch for him, Castiel."

"I do. Sam is my friend."

The words starts a warmth inside Sam. Slow embers flare and makes him warm and a little giddy at the thought. They've known each other for a day, and Dean sure didn't give Cas any reason to trust a Winchester, but yet he does. The warmth turns into a blush and a wide smile. Sam squeezes Castiel's shoulder. "Thanks, Cas."

"Yeah, he's alright," Lindsey adds. "He went looking for Castiel all over town and didn't stop before he found him. Makes him okay in my book."

"Fine." The woman's lips turn upwards at the corners. "You go talk to our administrator tomorrow, Sam. And if you aren't going to commit, if you aren't serious, don't come back. We are not here to make your CV look good."

"I know. It's not what I want." Sam sighs. "I wasn't always... successful. I... me and my brother. We... weren't homeless as such, but our father disappeared for weeks without leaving us money for food. Sometimes we had no power, no heating. We had to beg or steal. I— Sam turns, giving Cas a worried glance, as if mentioning Dean resets his trauma.

"We are both coming back to help." Castiel's expression is similar to the one he had when he fought for his belongings yesterday's night. He is quiet for a second, before he, too, makes a small smile. "I'll make sure we do."

Sam thinks that if he ever wanted a knight to fight a battle at his side, he would choose Castiel. Luckily for Sam, Castiel has nothing against being chosen.

*

Somehow they never make it to a motel. Sam simply cannot bear to dump Krissy and her father in a cheap motel room. A fancy hotel is out of the question, mostly because Sam thinks that Lee won't feel comfortable in one, not until he and Krissy has had the opportunity to use a shower and a washing machine. Sam has both. And a new kitchen, a full fridge and a house that is more than big enough for him and Cas. It's not a problem to make room for a thin little girl and her tired father.

Krissy falls asleep immediately, comfortably curling up on a pile of pillows and cushions that Sam has made on the living room floor. Her emaciated face is hidden under the covers, only her messy hair sticks out, dark strands against the crisp Egyptian cotton pillow case. Sam puts down a tray next to the soft nest. There is an apple, a bottle of mineral water and some biscuits on it. A single chocolate cookie. It's very little, but for someone who has been living on the street, without money, it is a lot.

"No, it's fine," Sam says quietly before Lee can say anything, gratitude painted all over his face. "I have more than enough. More than I can ever use." 

Yeah, he has. Room, money, luxurious comforters and plush pillows. Today has been a serious reminder that he used to have much less, and that he was fine with that. He had Dean. Sam sure doesn't want to go back to the time when Dean and he were starving and afraid, often left in urine-smelling motel rooms, courtesy of their dad's negligence, but he doesn't want to live in the ignorance-tinged trance that has been his life for the last few years. Sam had chosen not to see the misery around him, but meeting Castiel has removed the blindfold. Now that it's off, it can never go back on. 

Lee slides his hand down the back of the couch. "I don't think I've ever slept on anything so soft." He smiles dreamily. "And I can stretch out. Sleeping in the car is overrated."

Sam laughs, short and sharp with a tinge of bitterness and loss. "Tell me about it. Did that far too many times when my dad dragged us with him on one of his quests. I guess I forgot how uncomfortable it was."

"And tonight my daughter won't sleep in our car. Thank you, Sam."

Sam just shakes his head. "You, you and Cas, you made me remember what I should never have forgotten." Sam doesn't offer an explanation. He gives Lee's shoulder a squeeze. "Sleep well. Both of you."

He is barely out of the living room before he hears the rustle of sheets and blankets. The light is off before Sam closes the door. No wonder —Lee must be exhausted.

Sam retreats to the kitchen. Cas is sitting there, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands. The kitchen smells vaguely of bacon, and of the freshly-made coffee. It smells lived in. He smiles when Sam walks in. He is quiet, but his eyes speak. They are smiling, too. After all that has happened, it makes Sam glad that there are still smiles left in Cas.

"I have to go to the office tomorrow." Sam sits down, reaching for the coffee pot. "I don't want to."

"I would not offend you by telling you that there is always a choice," Castiel says, turning the mug, looking at the swirling coffee. "There is a lot of people who never had any choice, except the choice between starving or begging."

"I know. I do have a choice, though. Not so much about tomorrow; it'd be rude if I didn't show up, but next week, or next month." Sam hangs his head. This is the punishment for being so stupid as to think he'd fit in with Abaddon & Alastair. "I can't do it, Cas."

"Then don't." Castiel doesn't offer any solution. 

"It's going to cost me. I'm a partner, and they are going to rip me off if I let them, trying to get out of it. It's fine, but I don't wanna do it without your— Approval? Not exactly, but Cas is family, and Sam wants Castiel to know what's going on. He should never again have to deal with a life-changing Winchester surprise. "I won't lose the house. I have more money than I can use in twenty years, but money might become a bit tighter if I do this." It's ridiculous. Even out of work, Sam's savings can last him a lifetime if he's careful.

Castiel is —as Sam has learned by now —either quiet or sharp as a razor, cutting to the bone when he's not mourning his ruined marriage. "What do you really want to do, Sam?" 

Cas reaches across the table and takes Sam's hand. Castiel's fingers are warm from the hot mug. Sam breathes out his surprise, but doesn't move his hand. It feels nice to have Cas close, to have someone he can rely on. Someone to touch.

Sam doesn't have to think about an answer. "I want to quit. I know this is stupid; lawyers aren't immune to the recession, and becoming a partner at A & A was my dream. I should be happy, but I'm not. I want to start my own law firm, Cas, helping people who otherwise never could afford me. Or you."

"I am not for sale." Castiel cocks his head questioning.

"No, but your services are. We could make a business, taking cases like Lee's, charge people only if we win. We'd still do pro bono work for the shelter. I'd have more time to do that kind of work. But I'm going to need an accountant if I am going to offer general counsel to something like small businesses. You're an accountant."

"And a housekeeper and a bodyguard. Looks like I am moving up in the world."

Sam laughs. "That too and so you are." Sam's brain goes into planning mode. He can do it. _They_ can do it. He holds on to Castiel's hand, making a nod as if he's bowing to him. "What do you say, Mr Novak? Do you want to enter into a business relationship with me?"

A shadow passes across Castiel's face. Maybe it's the memory of another relationship, another proposal. Oh, Sam is going to murder Dean in a few interesting and very painful ways for hurting Cas so.

Maybe the Sam's protectiveness is visible because Cas's mood is changing that instant. "Why, yes, Mr Winchester, I think I might like that."

"Great! Novak & Winchester?"

"Winchester & Novak," Castiel decides. "You're the boss."

"Right. If you think so. I'm not going to fight you over it," Sam declares with a grin, extraordinarily pleased that Cas is on board with it. "I might be stupid, but I'm not _that_ stupid. Winchester  & Novak it is."


	6. Under Fire

There are no more eggs, and the buns are gone as well. Sam looks longingly at the box of cereal in Cas's hand. He could eat more of those, just to delay his exit. 

"I don't wanna go," Sam whines, knowing he's behaving like a spoiled brat. "Cas! Help!" he begs, like Castiel can actually do something, anything, to stop the day from progressing.

Castiel moves the coffee pot outside Sam's reach. "No. No more coffee. No more breakfast."

"How can you be so bossy suddenly?" Sam groans. "You were—"

"I wasn't myself. Your brother left me, my heart was shattered, and I had no place to stay," Cas says calmly. "How proactive do you think I felt? If you want me to help you, then get up and do your job. The sooner you go to work, the sooner it is over. You do want to start the life you want, I assume."

"Ouch!" Sam takes the verbal slap in stride although it feels like someone just poured a bucket of ice cold water over his head. Yeah, there was that. Being dumped like Dean had dumped Cas would probably have taken most of the fight out of Sam as well. "I'm sorry. I know. I'm behaving like a child."

"Good." Cas doesn't know the word 'mercy'. "Go away."

"But—"

"Out. You have things to do." Castiel looks strict, as if he's used to commanding battalions, but there's a glint in his eyes that tells Sam that he might not be as bossy as he seems. Maybe he just understands what Sam needs, right here and right now, like he knows that Sam needs that kick in the ass. And Cas is right. Sam has things to do — he has a family, or so it feels. He has people to take care of; this odd collection of people he's found: a small kid and her father; a lost husband; a perky, blond girl who seems to have attached herself to them. A shelter full of people in need of a champion. Compared to the trouble _they_ have, Sam's regret that he has affiliated himself with A  & A is no less than ridiculous. 

And Sam sure has things to do. Because there is no doubt in his mind that he has to cut himself loose from his employers and partners. 

It doesn't mean it has to be pleasant. 

It means it has do be done.

"Thanks, Cas," Sam says, patting Cas on the shoulder as he passes him. "I'm glad you're here," he adds when he turns, standing in the door. "I really am."

Cas's smile is small and soft. "So am I. Strange, but I am. Good luck, Sam."

*

Tall glass doors slide apart to let Sam into the small law firm that is supposed to be his for the next year. He walks across a pristine white floor, marble, to a steel and glass reception. The office is very quiet, as if everybody there are holding their breath. They know he's coming today and the silence is disconcerting. It'd have been easier to be the old Sam, the one who had abandoned his soul for a bag of money. That Sam wouldn't have cared.

Abaddon & Alastair is no different from any other company with more branches: rumor flies, and it flies fast. Sam has no idea what they've been saying about him, but he's damned sure it hasn't been anything nice, not when the office is indistinguishable only from a tomb because it's filled with folders and desks and other paraphernalia one usually doesn't store in graveyards. _Winchester is a pit bull in court. Send Winchester, he's gonna fleece them for every dollar they own. Morally questionable? Send Winchester. Rapist? Send Winchester. Murderer? Send Winchester. Million-dollar tax evasion? Winchester for the Defense._ And now they did. Sam knows that he would have been apprehensive, greeting the lawyer he was. 

Sam steps up to the reception desk. There is a young man sitting behind it. He looks frozen. 

"Hello," Sam says.

The kid behind the desk might or might not be breathing. 

"I'm Sam Winchester."

"I'm only part time. Don't fire me. Please!" He's hyperventilating, Sam's sure. "I promise I'll work harder!"

"Okay. Yeah. Fine." Sam wonders where the rabbit hole is. Mostly because this is slightly surreal, and also because Small Asian Guy Behind the Desk looks like he could use one. "Erm. Let's start again. Hello, I'm Sam Winchester, attorney at law." Sam holds out his hand. Nothing happens. "And you are?"

"Gone, I hope. Kevin is not staying with us." A balding man with cold blue eyes steps out from one of the offices, at least Sam thinks they are offices. The man looks arrogant and smug and Sam can't stand him at sight. He knows his name already: it's Zachariah-something, the in house accountant. HR hinted that he'd been expecting a promotion to executive officer and partner when the previous and most recent A & A partner left the Lawrence to get back to the HQ in New York. He, if any, has no reason to want Sam here. At the first look at the guy, the feeling is reciprocated.Sam remembers clearly from — _Fuller_ , yeah, that was it — Zachariah Fuller's file, the man's an ambitious, arrogant opportunist, willing to brown-nose so deep that if Sam isn't careful he's going to end up with Fuller's entire head up his ass. Sam is not particularly enthused about that prospect. Oh, well. Zachariah is the kind of person that Sam detests. He'd rather deal with people such as Abaddon and Alastair, at least they are honest in their pursuit of status and power. 

Sam didn't rise to be partner in A & A by being nice, and he can hold off becoming the man he'd like to be for a day. Then again, the man he'd like to become would dislike Fuller too. Fuller is the type of lawyer that Sam became a lawyer to fight— before he sold his soul to the Devil for fame and fortune. Kevin, the flustered young guy, on the other hand... Not A & A material, in that regard Zachariah is right. Kevin Tran is too clean, too hard-working in the wrong way, seen from an A & A point of view. Top of his class, but not Ivy League, as far as Sam remembers from his file. Sam can't remember, however, what Kevin is doing, exactly, other than that he works part time as a doormat — Sam's not in doubt that someone such as Kevin is doing the hard work for people who have no qualms leaving the shitty jobs to the young Mr Tran. Sam likes him already. He's probably overworked and underpaid, A & A style. That can be remedied.

The entire situation is so far from what Sam had counted on or planned. No, he'd have preferred to go in, be as unobtrusive as possible, then negotiate with Abaddon and Alastair's management committee and the equity partners to leave the Lawrence branch as quietly as he arrived. But that was before he met Zachariah. And who knows, a guy like him probably has minions. Sam is not working with Fuller, not for as much as a second. If he is going to stay here for a couple of months, changes need to happen.

So Sam stares at the bald man in front of him, expressionless. Sam's good at that. He can glare with the best. If there was a contest, he could probably stare at water coldly enough to make ice cubes out of it. "He stays. Mr Tran isn't going anywhere. Kevin, you just got a promotion. I need a paralegal I can trust, and you're it."

Kevin Tran looks crestfallen, and Sam somehow _knows_ that he has just added another stray to his collection of lost kids. Zachariah, on the other hand, is not fazed. 

"You can't—"

Sam takes a step forward, violating Zachariah's comfort zone deliberately. "Tell me once more what I can or can't do, Zachariah, and I'll have you escorted from the premises within a minute. Are we clear?"

"But—"

"Kevin, do we have security?"

"As if I'd let you." Zachariah snaps. "They said you were a total Goody Two-shoes, and they were right. There's always room for an accountant that gets things done; I'll let Ms Abaddon hear about this, and we'll see who comes out on top." Zachariah's smug smile is triumphant. "There's no use for people like you in this economy. Why do you think they sent you here, Winchester? Because they wanted to keep you? Think again. You're nothing to them."

Sam knows he's not usually slow, but something that Cas said to him flickers to life in his brain. _They brought in Zachariah._ How the hell could he be this clueless; Zachariah is not that common a name. Sam doesn't care whether Zachariah was brought in for his 'benefit', or if it is pure coincidence. There can't be that many accountants that go by that name. "You ever worked with an accountant called Castiel?" Sam asks, his tone of voice only slightly less demanding than that of a cranky drill sergeant. "Well?"

"None of your business, but yes. Another bleeding heart that didn't understand that it doesn't help the economy, giving in to the demands of lazy immigrants and people going on about minimum wages and welfare. He was fired, thank God, useless left-wing trash that he was. The good thing about the recession is that we get rid of the weak. It's the time of the predator, Winchester, and you're not it."

Sam's anger moves through his body, stone cold and about as destructive as a glacier. Sam gathers that it's probably true that Zachariah is one of Abaddon's favorites; he'd never dare speak to a partner like that if he weren't. Then again, they didn't promote him when the possibility was there, so maybe he's the other dog in a dog fight, set up to get rid of them both. Anyway, Sam's speculations are irrelevant. There is a whole other angle on that problem and Sam's about to address that. "Hold on," he tells Zachariah and pulls out his phone. "A moment." Sam punches his home number. 

It takes a while before someone answers. It's Cas.

"It's me," Sam says, and Castiel doesn't ask who 'me' is.

"Yes? Are you okay, Sam?"

"Never better. I'm going to put you on speaker. Just listen."

True to his trademark stoicism Cas simply waits. Sam takes it as a sign that he can go on. Sam directs his icy attention to Fuller once more. "Zachariah, I don't care that you might think that you have a place with A & A. If you are such good friends with Ms Abaddon, I suggest you ask her to employ you elsewhere. Your time with A & A Lawrence is over. You're fired."

"Excuse me?" Zachariah's eyes widen and he gets unappealingly tomato-red in the face. "You think you can walk in here and—" 

Cas's gasp into the phone is loud enough for Sam to hear. Yeah, Cas recognizes the voice of the man who got him fired. "I take it you heard me. You're fired." Sam coldly. "Kevin, please ask security to help Mr Fuller collect his belongings, then escort him off the premises. Mr Fuller no longer works here." Sam takes a few steps away from the reception desk, turning to look once more at Zachariah who is still standing in the doorway. Two suit-clad women are standing behind him, wide-eyed and surprised. Sam smiles at them. It's not a pleasant smile. He lets the smile slide off, leaving only an Arctic expression of disdain when he nods at Zachariah. "Oh, and Castiel Novak sends his regards. Good day, Fuller."

Ignoring Zachariah entirely, counting on Kevin and security to do their job, Sam picks up the phone again. "Cas?"

"I didn't know you were a vengeful man," Castiel says. "It was not a very kind thing to do. How did you know it was him?"

"Zachariah is not a very kind person in any case," Sam replies. "I finally put two and two together when I met him. Plus, there are limits to what I am going to endure on a daily basis, so it wouldn't have taken long before I'd have him fired anyway." Sam is not going to admit that he acted rashly, that he perhaps should have given Zachariah a chance to redeem himself. Sam didn't _want_ to give Zachariah a chance, not when he realized that the asshat was the asshat that had made Castiel's life a living hell, assisted beautifully by Dean, unfortunately, but fair's fair: Dean's in for a treat, too, when Sam gets a hold of him. 

"I'll make you regret it," Zachariah hisses at Sam's back before Sam hears fast, heavy steps and a door that slams so hard that the flowers on the reception desk are taking a dive over the edge. Sam catches the vase, avoids the sloshing water and puts the bouquet and the crystal vase back on the desk.

"Yeah, do that," Sam sneers at the closed door, somehow more confident that he did the right thing. "And I'll enjoy ripping you apart in court." He realizes that he's speaking into the phone. "Sorry, Cas. Zachariah was just leaving. You okay?"

There's a pause. "Yes. He deserved it, but please don't fire more people. Just because they work there, it doesn't mean they are like him."

Sam has seen how ruthless Cas can be when he has to, so when he begs for mercy on behalf of Zachariah's colleagues, Cas means it. "I won't. I promise. You are the one who told me I need to do what needs to be done, remember?"

Cas just sighs into the phone and disconnects.

The commotion has made people leave their offices and come into the reception to see what's going on. Not precisely how Sam wanted his introduction to his co-workers, either. Sam takes a moment, dries his slightly sweaty hands in his Armani pants and prepares to put together some kind of explanation.

A slender man in a nice suit with a decidedly inappropriate v-neck t-shirt under the tailored jacket claps slowly. "Nice reflexes. Nice _all_ of you, to be honest. And you managed to do in seconds what all of us—" The guy's eyes flicker to the two women who'd been in Zachariah's office. "—almost all of us have tried to do for the last six months — getting Zach out of here. Without much luck, obviously." The guy holds out his hand. "I'm Balthazar Freely, and you are Sam Winchester, I gather. Or you have a twin that looks awfully like you," Balthazar drawls. "I've always dreamed of a threeso—" 

"What?" Sam blinks, smooths his hair and is somewhat at a loss of what to say. Seeing that he's a top class defense lawyer, that doesn't happen too often. "Wow, sexual harassment this early? Didn't see that coming," Sam finally croaks, still at a loss. He tries to kick his brain into gear, remembering what A & A HR had to say about Mr Freely. He's an associate, and HR's assessment is that he is not going to make partner anytime soon. Which is the diplomatic way of saying that Balthazar is standing first in the line of people they need to get rid of. Sam is sure that if A & A wants Balthazar out, he's a keeper. Unless the guy is harassing people on a daily basis, that is.

"That can be remedied," Balthazar smirks. "At your service anytime, if you wanna come." Balthazar's smirk grows. "I'll be happy to—"

"That's another thing we've tried for months, making Balthazar shut up," a woman — clad in something as inappropriate as Balthazar's v-neck, says. Her attire looks decidedly like a Hogwarts uniform paired up with a pink t-shirt with a cartoon print on the front. "I'm Charlie, the IT guy. And Balthazar usually isn't this bad — to be honest, he's usually really entertaining. He made an art form of pissing off Zach. The crap he's pulling right now? Balthazar is probably trying to get you to fire him so that he can sue A & A for unlawful termination just for the fun of it."

Charlie doesn't look much like any IT guy, Sam has ever known. Sam thinks Charlie might have heard that question a gazillion times in her career. _Where's the IT guy?_ "Not much unlawful about it when the first thing he suggests to me is a threesome with my twin."Sam shakes his head, feeling very tired already. "Is everybody here entirely inappropriate?"

"No, of course not. Only those two. And Hael." Charlie nods in the direction of the two women that had been with Zachariah. "Hester and Naomi."

Both women look like they've swallowed a really juicy piece of extremely sour lemon. 

"Zach's minions," Charlie informs him before any of them manage to get in as much as a word. "Naomi is the one with the smug smile, Hester is the one with the stick up her butt. Not that I've checked that it's actually there." 

Not that there are tensions between the employees or anything. 

Sam looks at his staff. So, a bright kid hardly out of school, an IT-guy who's a girl and thinks she's at Hogwarts, two uptight camp followers and a guy who is balancing on the edge of a sexual harassment charge. Win. Sam takes a few seconds, simply trying to come up with a brilliant plan that'll let him leave immediately, never to come back. Doesn't work. First, he has sort of taken responsibility for Kevin, promoting a kid to a job that should have gone to a much older and more experienced researcher. Secondly, Balthazar and Charlie are natural allies. seeing that they clearly detest people such as Zachariah, and Sam would feel bad, leaving the firm in the hands of the two silent, but upset women that Zachariah left. Naomi is the senior associate, and who knows what someone like her would do to the small group of rebels. No matter the small civil war that has been going on at the office, they are all Sam's responsibility. However, his determination to leave A & A as soon as humanly possible has only grown since he stepped into the office and met Zachariah and his less than charming minions. 

Sam digs deep and pulls out his pit bull courtroom persona. "I am not going to tolerate any disobedience, revolts or general discontent," Sam states when he finds his voice. "If you don't want to be here, feel free to leave with Zachariah," he tells everybody, looking at nobody in particular. "Immediately."

Nobody moves. 

"Good. Then I expect any fighting to cease immediately, and Balthazar, if I hear you make inappropriate suggestions to as much as a dust bunny, you're gone. Are we clear?" Sam makes a few calculations in his head. "Paralegals? We're supposed to have two more?

Naomi steps forward. "Meg and Ruby. Hael is my secretary and Balthazar probably has his secretary — that is Samandriel — tied up in his office. But—"

"Do I look like a pedophile to you?" Balthazar growls. "The boy is hardly twenty-one, and I prefer older men. Besides, I have a refined palate and Samandriel is not on it."

"If by 'refined' you mean 'hitting on everything with a pulse, and probably some without, your Lady Bah-Bah the inflatable love sheep not withstanding', then yes, you have a refined palate." Charlie smirks at Balthazar. 

"Envious, sweetheart?" Balthazar purrs. "At least she's more receptive to my charm that you ever were."

"And she'd do more for me that you ever could," Charlie throws back. She grins and looks at Sam. "Don't fire Balthazar. It'd be boring without him."

"Would you stop, please!" Naomi looks appalled. "Hester, would you fetch Mr Winchester's secretary? I think Elijah is waiting in his office. Get Meg and Ruby here as well. And Hael. We might not like each other, but at least we can act like civilized people and greet Mr Winchester accordingly. As we have just witnessed, Mr Winchester has no qualms letting you know if you're not up to A & A standard, so unless you're willing to face the consequences, I suggest that you all take a moment to consider your professional behavior."

"Boring," Balthazar whispers loudly. "Fine." He disappears into one of the offices, only to bring back a pale young man with a determined expression. Sam gathers it is necessary to keep Balthazar in line. Three women, all of which Sam has seen pictures of in their files, gather around Naomi. Hael, Meg and Ruby. It's obvious that the Lawrence law firm is split in two factions: Zachariah's and Charlie's. Or Naomi's and Charlie's now that Sam has gotten rid of Zachariah. Balthazar, Charlie and Kevin all seem like people Sam would hang out with, provided Balthazar could keep his hands to himself. 

Sam isn't sure he likes Naomi one bit, but she's one thing none of the others are: professional. He nods his appreciation to her and her lips that are pressed together in an annoyed, narrow line on her serious face, loosen into a similarly tight, brief smile. 

"Everybody's here now? Great." Sam hesitates, bracing himself mentally. Hell's about to break loose. He straightens up. "I have an announcement to make. I quit."


	7. In Deep

Sam's not a coward, never been, never will be. Or so he tells himself. The office he's sitting in is a very nice setting for self-deceit: the room is calm and quiet, the soft rug deep enough to drown in. There is nothing that irritates the eye; it's polished steel, deep leather cushions, a comfortable Eames chair; an ergonomic desk. An iMac. Even the tall trees outside let in a cool, green, calming light. Sam distractedly caresses the smooth corners of the brand new computer, not really seeing it, nor registering its $2,500 overpriced design. Instead he stares at the glass door across the room, wondering when someone is going to step through it, asking for an explanation, one that Sam really can't come up with. Saying that he is no longer the man he was a few weeks ago probably won't do it, but that's all he has, and that is the truth. He went to Lawrence, eyes closed, and it took an abandoned husband and three homeless people to make him open them. Now that he can see, it's difficult to close his eyes again and unsee the poverty and misery he encountered.

Sam can't explain the change, not really. Just that he was a soft-hearted, people-loving humanitarian once, and he sort of lost his way and his soul. Sure, that one's going to make the partners laugh at him for a decade. 

Sam recalls Cas's soft smile and _his_ laughter. Yeah, he'll swap that for A  & A's arrogance anytime. Lee's relief, Lindsey's tough survival instincts, Krissy's face, relaxed and unworried in her sleep. That has to be explanation enough if anyone ever wants one. That's the benefit of being the boss, Sam realizes. Nobody wants anything from him. They are all afraid of him, afraid of losing their jobs. Anyone working for A & A is aware that anybody but the partners are expendable, and as Sam's the only partner in the Lawrence branch, it's not too difficult to put two and two together and get fired. They know that Sam stays, and anybody else doesn't. 

Except he just quit, and in any other A & A branch it would mean that the hyenas would turn on him faster than lightning. And yet they haven't. He'd have expected Zachariah's minions to attack immediately. Maybe they really are that afraid? Sam's fully aware of his reputation. He's the guy they send when Alastair and Abaddon can't go. He's the guy they send when pit bull DA's are ready to rip A & A clients apart. Sam has always been ready for battle, the more vicious the better. 

No, Sam's no coward, and everybody at A & A knows it. 

He didn't retreat to his office out of cowardice. No it's merely to let people adjust to... change. Okay, so he evicted Elijah the secretary to his own cubicle. Doesn't make him a coward. No, definitely not a coward.

The phone rings. Sam stares at it.

Okay, so he's a coward. He lets the phone ring for half a minute, and as the caller clearly has patience, Sam hesitantly reaches for the button that lets the beast into his lovely office. He does so with closed eyes, praying it's not Abaddon.

"Winchester."

"Moose, you've been naughty, I hear. And Abaddon heard it too. Our beloved leader is on the warpath, sweetheart."

"Who called her, Crowley?"

"Zachariah, of course. He's such a dear. Couldn't wait to spew all over your reputation. You got yourself a friend there, Sammy, well done." 

"Why are you warning me? You know what Alastair will do if he finds out that you did."

"Ah, he's busy torturing some innocent mafia snitch in court, one of his beloved godfather-types are in deep shit. I'd be more worried about Abaddon. So do you need help or not? I assume you have Zachariah's pet there still? Naomi? Or did you fire her too?"

"Yes. I mean, no. No, I didn't fire her. And, yes, I need help."

"Don't. Naomi is barely tolerable, but she'll keep the ship floating until I get there to sink it properly. They want little old me to go rein you in; darling Abaddon thinks she's punishing us both that way. She wasn't particularly enthused about me, helping you out with that contract. Funny how she thinks that she has any actual power over me. She's using this to get rid of me. I wonder why. I am the epitome of charm and politeness."

"How... practical of her." Sam has never entertained any friendships at A & A, neither with Crowley, nor with anybody else. The downside to working with assholes. Crowley is unreliable, arrogant and annoying, yet Sam sort of likes him. And he did help with the partner contract. They are not friends, but Crowley saved Sam a few mistakes, nothing big, but big enough to be troublesome if he ever wanted to leave A & A. Seen in the light of this morning's events, Sam is particularly grateful. It's no surprise that Crowley dislikes Abaddon since his entire life seems to revolve around the many ways he is able to make life difficult for her. That Crowley is willing to swallow demotion without a fight merely to mess with her is truly surprising, though. Crowley is a survivor; he surely has another agenda other than to get back at Abaddon if he takes it lying down. "So?" Sam asks.

"So my guess is that she'll be in here in about five minutes, telling me once more that I'll have to go to Lawrence to kick you out, take over, and start earning money. Possibly fire a few other unsuspecting victims to make sure the message is understood. She has an annoying habit of repeating herself when she's angry."

"Sounds like Abaddon to me. What are you gonna do?"

"The exact opposite, of course. I was thinking of leaving A & A anyway. After I ruin her reputation. It's going to be such poor judgment to send me to Kansas. Alastair is not going to forget her mishap for some time. Not when I'm done with A & A Lawrence. Abaddon is going to hate me. Hate me _more_."

"Really?"

"You sound surprised, Winchester. Didn't think I had it in me to come to your rescue? I am a very kind and—"

"—selfish person who'd steal the life vest off his grandma if the ship was going down."

"That too. I'd probably kick her for good measure, making sure she'd go under. Would you believe me if I told you I like your style?"

"Not for a second."

"Clever boy. You learn fast. I do like your style, though." There's a pause and noise in the background. "The wicked witch is coming; I have to run. I'll be in Lawrence for dinner. Book us a table somewhere nice, darling."

The phone is dead. Sam stares at it for a while. Crowley has never been a friend, they merely shared a common dislike of Abaddon. Sam's sure that Crowley hasn't suddenly turned into a humanitarian, but the help and support he offers is both strangely touching and very surprising. Although Crowley might have a hidden agenda, he is still risking his position at A & A, so it's probably true that he wants to leave. 

"Gift horse," Sam says aloud. And as the cat is out of the bag in regards to his departure from A & A, he's going to take all the help he can get. Despite everything, Sam wants to leave without too much fuss. Having Crowley there to stir things up means that the brunt of A & A's anger is going to be directed at him. Most of it. Sam has messed up, and the A's sure are going to let him feel their wrath. But it feels good to have an ally. Crowley's bad news, but at least he isn't Sam's bad news. 

Sam presses the button on the intercom that says _Reception_. "Kevin?"

"Sir?" Kevin's voice is young and insecure. 

"Quit the sir and get in here," Sam demands. He's probably not going to be managing the Lawrence branch for long, but Sam is still responsible for employees and clients. "I need you to get me up to date with our cases."

*

Kevin turns out to be intelligent and quick on the uptake. Before lunch, Sam is up to date with their cases, and although the small law firm is busy, it is nothing like working in A & A New York.

They are about done when Kevin takes a deep breath, seemingly bracing himself. His cheeks are a little flushed and he fidgets, turning a pencil between his fingers. 

"Yeah?" Sam makes what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

"When you leave..." Kevin begins, his courage trailing off.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," Sam attempts. "I think I'm going to start my own law firm, just me and an accountant friend."

"Oh!" Kevin's expression can best be described as 'hopeful'.

Sam catches on immediately. He takes a quick decision, one he might regret later, and then again, maybe not. If Kevin stays he's going to be in trouble, and Sam's not going to leave a trail of soon-to-be-unemployed victims to A & A's unjustified, but inevitable rage. "I'll still need a paralegal."

"Seriously?" A smile flashes on Kevin's face. "Like, I can quit too?"

Sam has no idea where his law firm's going to be located, or what's it's going to be like. If he'll even have clients enough to actually justify keeping a paralegal on the non-existing payroll. One thing he does know is that he's not going to leave Kevin to be slaughtered and gobbled up in the massacre that will inevitably follow his exit. "Yes. Part time for now, if that's okay? Not that I have much for you to do, other than to help me find a proper office so that we have an actual place to have nothing to do."

"My uncle works for the IRS. He might know a place. He gets around downtown a lot."

It should feel like betrayal, sitting in his A & A office, hiring their employees, making his first decision as his own boss. Sam finds that he cannot make himself care. "Great. That'd be your first task: find us a decent downtown office, nothing too fancy. We need a reception, a meeting room, at least four offices, no more than..." Sam thinks about what he can afford. He has money enough as such, but he still has to plan ahead. Years ahead. "If you can find something below 3K a month, there's a chance we're going to be in business next year also."

Kevin beams. "I'll get to it right away. Reception and _four_ offices?"

Sam can count too. "You might not be the only one without a job come the end of the day. I know the guy they're sending to take over; we have nothing to fear from him... but he's going to have Alastair and Abaddon riled up, and I guess we both know what happens when the bosses are not happy."

"I'll tell Charlie. If that's okay, I mean?"

"You're telling me I have an IT guy employed as well?"

"Sounds like it. Charlie's not staying if Naomi's up for promotion. They detest each other."

Kevin's tense expression mellows, shoulders visibly falling. The knowledge that he still has a job come the end of the day is making an impact on his mood and his desire to communicate. Sam thinks that he might have made the right decision, asking Kevin to come with him. Kevin might be young, but he is sharp and his confidence is not broken. With the support of people who cares about him, Kevin might become a very, very good paralegal. Even though he is barely through his first year in law school, he has passed the rigorous demands of A & A, which probably means that Kevin could kick Ivy League graduate ass without as much as breaking a sweat. Why the kid isn't at Stanford or Berkeley is beyond Sam. Admittedly, A & A Lawrence seems to be Abaddon's unwanted employees dumping ground, Naomi and Hester exempt, yet the standard is still above just about any other law firm in existence. A & A hires only the best. 

Sam gets an idea. He's not sure it's a very good one, because it requires him to trust Crowley. Not his best move, but then again, Crowley has put out his own neck in this. "What are you doing tonight? I guess you and I, and maybe Charlie should make plans. I have backup coming over from HQ, and he's elated by the thought of getting to ruin Abaddon's plans."

"Seriously? You have someone from New York on your side?"

Sam decides that he has to trust Kevin explicitly. "Crowley. He _hates_ Abaddon."

"Crowley?" Kevin blinks, this time he looks like a deer caught in the headlights. "Like in _the_ Crowley? The guy who got that Columbian drug lord out of jail?"

"Yeah. Not one of A & A's finest moments." Sam feels ashamed. That's what he did before Cas — helped criminals to walk free. "I know it sounds bad, but he did help me when I moved here. And his hate for the A's, Abaddon especially, is legendary. I don't know why they keep him, I guess Alastair likes that he has no moral whatsoever; Crowley has no problem defending even the worst scum you can think of. Made him rich."

"Okay," Kevin says, clearly not on with Crowley as a part of their team. "And you want me to do what?"

"I want you to book us dinner at an upscale restaurant, somewhere with relative privacy. I want to get out of my contract without creating too much trouble for myself and for the rest of you. I want you to have a proper job outside A & A. I want Crowley to take the flak for us and enjoy it. So what I want is plotting and co-conspirators. We are going to help Crowley."

Kevin still looks a little stunned, but he manages to take down Sam's cell phone number and additional details. Hiring Kevin was clearly a stroke of genius. Even shaken at his core, Kevin works diligently and fast. When he's done writing, he looks like a man with a mission. 

"Charlie, Balthazar, maybe Samandriel. Samandriel knows everything about Balthazar, and I suspect the opposite is true as well. If Balthazar and Mr Crowley don't kill each other, they are probably going to be very efficient together."

Sam sure isn't going to contradict Kevin. Damn, A & A made a mistake treating Kevin like a third rate servant. Sam thinks about it for a second. Crowley and Balthazar are both arrogant, superior assholes. Yeah, that's going to work. And Balthazar has expressed his support already. "Can we trust them?"

"Balthazar will stab you in the back if he thinks it's going to be to his benefit. But he is annoyed that A & A never offered him to become a partner, so I think your back is safe for now. Charlie is reliable, Samandriel doesn't know the word 'deceit', but he is loyal to Balthazar."

"I guess I have you to watch my back," Sam says, scratching his shoulder blade. It itches like Sam can feel the tip of a knife there.

"Make Balthazar a partner, and you'll have his full support and eternal gratitude. And Samandriel. Where Balthazar goes, Samandriel isn't far behind."

"Does Balthazar want to do any pro bono work? I want to—"

"You'd be surprised how selfless he can be, given the right incentive. If he's a partner, he has to get his own clients, but it'll be under your rule. Add to his contract that he needs to donate... five hours a week to whatever Winchester, Freely and... "

"Novak."

"Winchester, Freely and Novak decides. And ask Crowley to write the contract, or Balthazar will screw you over. Twice."

"For a receptionist, you know a lot about your co-workers," Sam says. "Anybody else I need to hire, Mr Human Resources?"

Kevin freezes. "Oh my god. I'm—"

"Don't say you're sorry." Sam points at him with a finger. "I am not A & A. And you're no longer theirs."

"No. I guess... I watched people. Zachariah looked at me as if I was nothing, and Naomi and Hester usually forgot that I was there. Still had ears."

"Their loss."

"Inias."

"Come again?"

"You need to hire Inias."

"And Inias is..."

"A & A Oklahoma. He wanted to transfer to Lawrence. Secretary. You'll need one."

"I have you."

"I'm your paralegal."

"We haven't even found our first case," Sam argues. "I don't really need a paralegal." Or a partner, a female IT guy, another secretary or a backstabbing, conniving colleague from the HQ. And yet here he is.

"You won't be without for long. A & A isn't local. The Winchesters are. Common people would hire you."

Sam stares at Kevin. There sure are more Winchesters in Lawrence, but there is no doubt which one makes this Winchester into Winchester _s_. Dean.

"Sheriff Mills knows your brother. She speaks highly of him. Plus, you're willing to go up against A & A. My guess is that the DA's going to love you too. And the entire police force. They're probably tired of seeing their hard work go to waste when A & A is called in, pulling one disgusting criminal after the other out of the courtroom, free of all charges."

"How did you ever manage to work for them?" Sam asks. He has asked himself that question several times the last couple of days. Now there are more questions he'd like to ask and they are not about Kevin or A & A. But that has to wait. Right now he's responsible for a number of people, unemployed, homeless, or soon-to-be unemployed. They have work to do.

*

It takes a few hours before Sam decides that enough is enough. He leaves the office with Kevin, refusing to leave him to the vultures at the office. Driving Kevin the few miles to his home, Sam is relieved when he is finally alone in his car. He turns on the radio, classical station, and forces himself to breathe and relax. He still have a lot to do, not least telling Castiel that they now seem to have a law firm and a handful of employees to take care of, on top of everything else.

It had been so much easier ignore his conscience, to ignore Castiel and his pain, to ignore that people were suffering. Now it feels like Cas and him against the world, and somehow Sam is fine with that. Cas makes him smile, despite everything.

And it's with a smile, Sam leaves the car to walk the few steps to the house he shares with Cas.

Cas is in the kitchen, making lunch. He's experimenting with sandwiches, at least it looks that way, what with bread and various condiments spread all over the worktop. The smell of freshly cut vegetables makes Sam's mouth water. He snatches a few pieces of cucumber from one of the plates, stepping close enough to Cas to take in the vague smell of soap and aftershave.

"You're home early," Cas says without looking up. "Did they fire you?" He hesitates a moment before he puts the knife down and turns to look at Sam, frowning. "Do I need to kill somebody?"

"Didn't go exactly as planned," Sam groans, mouth full of food, realizing only now how he truly fucked up his carefully laid plans. "Didn't mean for it to go like that. I quit. And I might have hired a paralegal and an IT guy who's a woman."

"Do you need a paralegal and an IT guy? IT girl?" Cas asks. He looks a little worried, the frown still marring his face. "I don't think we have anywhere to put them." The frown disappears and is replaced with a soft smile. "We can get bunk beds?"

Sam sits down on the chair slowly, feeling the day's stress weighing heavily on him. Two weeks ago, he'd have walked into the Lawrence office with all the confidence of a successful and ruthless lawyer, fired anyone standing in his way, and slept well at night, thinking nothing about it. Now? It's different. Because now he _cares_. He cares about Kevin and his promising future. He cares about Charlie and maybe even about Balthazar, because his rebellious behavior actually is both annoying and entertaining. And he cares about Lee and Krissy, about the work that he's committed to, helping out at the shelter. And he cares about Cas, about coming home to meet only support and care from a man who has no reason to give either, at least not to a Winchester. 

Sam looks up at Cas in something akin to adoration. The 'we' has not been lost on him. "Just like that?"

"Just like what? You have a paralegal and a female computer guy. We need to find a place to stash them."

"I mean, you're just..." _Patient. Wonderful. Perfect._ "Stoic."

"I was married to your brother."

"There's that. I guess that demands a certain level of stoicism."

Cas sighs. "Sometimes I miss him. Or maybe I just miss the opportunity to punch him in the face." He shakes his head and continues before Sam can say anything. "I am happier now."

"I'm glad. And I'm gonna punch Dean in the face for you. When I find him."

Cas purses his mouth. "Don't waste your time looking," he says, pausing as if he's thinking about something. "I don't want him back."

The words are out of Sam's mouth before he can stop them. "He can't have you back, either. You're mine now."

It makes Cas smile again. "I'm nobody's but my own. But if I were to be anyone's, I'd rather be yours."

Cas's eyes are serious, and Sam can't look away. The world has disappeared, and there are only Cas's deep blue eyes, ocean deep and just as dangerous if he falls into them. _Yours._

Oh, fuck. As if there weren't complications enough. 

_Yours._


End file.
